Instances
by Riddelly
Summary: Their relationship is crafted of complexity, with a hundred sides and a thousand layers. 100 Theme Challenge, Johnlock-centric.
1. Introduction

**A/N** _It took me a long time, but I finally managed to finish the 100 Theme Challenge! And here is where I'll post it, one drabble a day, until I have its total of 52,000 words up. Every one will be Johnlock-centric, and mostly from their perspectives. Some I'm happy with, some not so much, but I'd love to get feedback from any readers (in the form of reviews, naturally). The first drabble, 'Introduction,' takes place at the beginning of 'A Study in Pink,' if that isn't clear, and it uses an absurd amount of nonsensical descriptive language, so be forewarned. And, one more thing: I don't own this cover image, and it will be taken down immediately if requested. Enjoy!_

**Rated T** _for violence and some mild sexual references in later drabbles_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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I. Introduction

John is curious as Mike pushes the door open, because what's inside of it will probably be living with him from now on. It could be anyone. A man, of that he is certain, and a man convinced that he must be difficult to share a flat with. Not an altogether reassuring thought, but then again, John hasn't had many of that type lately. Not since his return from the war…

Touching on the topic of it—the war—opens a whole new realm of emotion that he doesn't want to delve into right now. Half-remembered ghosts, traces of dirt run through by cutting lines of sweat and blood, the eerie beauty of the crimson and scarlet liquid as it trickles through the sand, unable to soak into the dusty-clear fragments of mineral as it flees the splitting gunshots—like anything would, for every crack could be the sound of a thousand gallons of adrenaline being released, breaking through the painfully sharp silence that should be sewn into an artwork by a crescendo of climatic soundtrack, but it isn't, because this is no action film, this is real life—

The gunshots still ring in John's head as he first sets eyes upon Sherlock Holmes, and perhaps that's what starts it. Because, in that moment, he can see that they're composed of the same particles. Though Sherlock—for now, the nameless man—is absolutely cold, from his pale skin, illuminated by the merciless hospital lights, to his slightly slanted eyes, washed out in a frosted pine-needle color that can't seem to decide if it's green or grey, to the dark ebony curls of hair that cluster almost boyishly around his tilted, slightly interested face, John knows that the war is in him, too. He doesn't use clever bursts of deduction or guesswork-aided logic to realize it. He just knows. There's a fire burning in this man that sings of grit and thirst, of unbelieving endurance that rips the throat and skin and heart, of watching bodies jerk sideways, like zombies out of a bad horror movie, before the contortion seeps out of them and they thud to the ground. But there's something else, too, the other side of the dreamy nightmare first discovered in Afghanistan. The comrade's grin as he chuckles, _They'll be calling you a real hero back home for this one, Watson. _The healing relief of even sun-warmed water after a bone-dry, merciless day. The thumping of a live heartbeat that promises a chance of survival—and it doesn't matter how wide that chance is, because it's a _yes, _a green light, a switch flipped on. And, most of all, the chilled blazing of stars spread over the dusk-violet dunes that's useless to count, because only together is the full tapestry formed.

John loves the war. Even as it tortures him and slashes away at his confidence in the world, in life, he loves it. Not like he'd love his parents or Harry or his friends. Something different. Rather than falling back on it, he's running forward to it. It's rough, wild, beautiful, intriguing, so full or reality and passion and _life. _

And for that half-instant before the door closes behind him, the dark-haired man _is _the war. The thing he longs for enough to kill. Yet half-instants pass, and he immediately realizes that he's staring only at a person. Not a battlefield, but a single human being. Still, somehow, part of the emotion remains. How John feels about the war… subconscious though the realization may be, he feels something.

He feels that the same love, someday, could be harbored for Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Love

**A/N** _This second bit is, unfortunately, one of those that I'm not quite as happy with, and a very short one, as well. Oh, well, maybe you guys'll like it. Thanks a ton for the favorites, reviews, and alerts!_

**Thanks to** _Pyreflies Painter, Natalie Nallareet, and Sylvia Griffin3_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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II. Love

Love, to the best of people—and by _best, _Sherlock clarifies, he means _clearest, cleverest—_simply doesn't exist. It's nothing beyond a mirage that changes people into killers, a bare concept, as source-less a belief as the "God" that makes its way into so many cultures and religions. Neither of these things have evidence of their reality. What people can't comprehend is that the power they so easily attribute to 'greater spirits' is truly contained in _them. _They're the ones to fight huge wars, to begin great revolutions, to reveal gargantuan new theories and inventions that will forever change the fate of the human race. Working for a blind cause does nothing. It's not rewarded, nor is it justified. All it does is leave scars far bigger than they would have been had the inflictors gouged them solely with their "own" resources.

John believes in God, and he believes in love, too.

Sherlock's always known this, ever since the day the two of them met. It's not hard to figure out. John doesn't wear a crucifix or even go to church, but his devotion is still there, just as a casual thing, occasionally tossed into everyday conversation like pepper into soup—not outstanding, but still doing its job to alter the flavor. Sherlock ignores it for the most part, might even have let one or two of the expressions slip into his own speech.

It's much harder to shake off when John talks about love.

For him, it's as real as concrete or steel or bone. So matter-of-fact. He _loves _his sister, comments on how much Lestrade _loves _his wife, insists that, surely, Mycroft _loves _Sherlock… though he never mentions it, the detective's sure that he wonders whether or not Sarah _loves _him. As if it matters. As if a thing about the physical world would be altered by such knowledge. John _loves _the world, really, _loves _life, simply because he has no reason not to.

Sherlock's always waiting for John to mention something else that he loves.

But even his brilliant mind can't quite figure out what it is.


	3. Light

**A/N** _The setting here is really ambiguous, but I picture it as being sometime mid-season one. Also, apologies for the late update- I completely forgot to post yesterday *headdesk*_

**Thanks to** _BarbaraK1, AyaToshu, and Pyreflies Painter (you're very welcome, I'll continue to do so as long as you review!)_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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III. Light

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

For the hundredth time, John shifts his position, trying to do so in such as way so as not to aggravate the shallow yet jagged wounds gouged into his bruised wrists. He gives his neck a twist in a wasted effort to keep it from cramping. How long has he been here? Three hours? Four? It feels like longer, but he's learned to measure time logically rather than emotionally. Yes, four hours seems about right. Four hours since he'd had a hand clamped over his mouth and a strong pair of arms force him into the backseat of a car with tinted windows. Four hours since he'd been roughly pulled out of it, found himself in a dank, pitch black underground tunnel, been tied to a chair with rope that seemed unnecessarily bristly and left to himself.

Four hours since the damn _dripping _started.

It's coming from somewhere above his head—thanks to the darkness, it's impossible to pinpoint the exact location. All he knows is that the water is _cold, _and that every drop of it is kind enough to land right on top of his head, never failing to send a chill through his scalp and down his spine. He's tried leaning left and right, but all that does is distribute the water more generously over his short blond hair, rendering the whole of it uncomfortably damp and—knowing its typical behavior—probably a bit spiky.

He doesn't even know where he _is. _It's far from the first time he's been kidnapped, but there seems to be virtually no imaginable reason for it this time around. Without any precedent or explanation, he was, quite simply, taken right off the streets. It would be comical if not for the fact that he's most certainly in severe danger.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Perhaps it's a bit ironic that he finds the sound of yells from farther up the tunnel reassuring.

But he does. The deep cries, echoing hollowly, ignite a spark of hope that flares inside of him. He knows what's coming next, and that's almost enough reason for him to relax in the straight-backed wooden chair. _Not much longer, _he silently assures the cuts on his wrists. They're now so bloody that the hot, slippery sensation is spreading down to his fingers, and their dull, aching throb, occasionally aggravated by a stray splinter, is growing unbearable.

The light makes him smile.

It's bright white, dancing in fast-moving dapples along the inky puddles that line the grime-coated floor. John squints as it illuminates his dingy prison, blinking rapidly so that he can focus on the tall, thin figure heading for him at an increasingly rapid pace.

They both exhale at the same time as they see each other clearly, the twin sounds of relief filling the small space. Sherlock sets his electric lantern down with a heavy clunk and gets to work freeing John's mangled hands, not bothering to be gentle as he rips off the rope.

"Late as usual," John criticizes half-jokingly as the bonds fall away. He rises, eager to escape the infernal dripping, but has to lean against the wall when a slight head-rush sets in, soaking his whole left sleeve and shoulder as they touch the damp stone.

"You okay?" Sherlock questions as he picks up the lantern again.

"'Course."

"I would have come sooner, but you were being guarded rather heavily. Not sure who's behind this one, though I can't wait to find out."

_I'll bet you can't, _John thinks, but this time he keeps his smile internal. Sherlock doesn't need to know how much excess giddiness his presence always delivers.


	4. Dark

**A/N** _I imagine this as being sometime post-TGG, pre-ASIB. Also, I headcanon Whovian!John so hard. It's appeared in almost all of my Sherlock fics, come to think of it. _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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IV. Dark

Even if he wanted to, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to sleep with the storm outside. He _doesn't _want to, of course; he almost never does, but he's still able to appreciate the abstract concept of such a situation. And to be irritated by how much the noise would impose on a rest wish.

_Noise _is a good word, much more intrusive and disruptive than the more fluid _sound. _It accurately reflects the ceaseless pounding of rain against the tall windows of 221b's living room, which are only recently repaired from the "gas leak" that destroyed them a few weeks back.

He lays on his back, on top of his bed's covers, letting the cacophony wash over him and straining his eyes in a fruitless battle against the solid wall of darkness that the room seems to consist of. He can detect a few faint contours—the end of the bed, top of the wardrobe—but he knows they're constructed as much from his own memories as they are from the invisible traces of light that filter in from the living room.

John's _still _out there, though it must be past two by now. He'll be tired at work again tomorrow, and probably unreasonably crabby in the evening.

Sherlock swings his long legs out of the bed, standing up smoothly. That's the last thing he needs. Best to get his flatmate to sleep at a somewhat decent hour.

He steps out cautiously, his pale eyes immediately adjusting to the light that radiates from the laptop balanced on John's lap. John himself is very clearly asleep, his head hanging at what has to be a dead uncomfortable angle and his jumper-clad chest rising and falling steadily. Sherlock watches him silently for a minute or so, immersed in the peace of the moment, with the rain attacking the outside of the flat and the shadows from various pieces of furniture stretching across the floor, long and dark. The scene of John slumped in his armchair is a still, warm, and sleepy one, and Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe, finds himself blinking back sudden tiredness. He gives his head a small shake that sends his dark curls askew and proceeds to cross the room in a couple of long strides.

The computer screen is lit a pale blue, a DVD menu screen featuring a silvery swirl of colors, at the center of which is a small blue box. _Doctor Who, _the blocky letters along the top read, _SEASON SIX PT. 2. _With a small sigh, Sherlock lifts the laptop and sets it on the desk before snapping the lid shut.

The room is bathed in sudden darkness, the only light source being gone. This is a relief, somehow. He'll feel more detached from his next intended action if he can't see himself doing it.

Gritting his teeth, he returns to the armchair and slides a thin hand down behind John's back, grasping the corner of the Union Jack pillow squashed there and dislodging it with a sharp jerk. The doctor mutters something in his sleep and shifts slightly, but Sherlock doesn't pause. Moving without thinking, he cups the back of John's head in his free hand and tilts it forward, just long enough to slide the pillow in behind it. John's breathing doesn't so much as quicken; he's still very much asleep.

"There," Sherlock growls into the dark, "your neck won't hurt so much that way."

Then he quickly leaves the room, not bothering to turn on a light.


	5. Seeking Solace

**A/N** _And, obviously, this is a different take on the fireplace scene from tHoB. Remember that I love reviews~ c:_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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V. Seeking Solace

_A hound._

_A massive hound, muscles rippling threateningly under its thick, night-black pelt, fiery red eyes glowing like embers out of a gruesome, twisted face, curled lips drawn back from glistening black gums, huge yellow fangs dripping slippery ropes of saliva, so prepared to slice and rip, to tear and kill, kill, kill…_

John doesn't believe him. It shows in his eyes, those amazing, ever-shifting eyes: the green-lit brown of sunlight through amber autumn leaves, freshened with hinted whispers of summer-sky, birdsong blue. He's skeptical, uncomprehending, —so many things, but not the most vital thing, not what Sherlock needs right now. Because what he needs, above all else, is _comforting—_some kind of stupid, false reassurance, to tell him… to tell him what? Not that the hound doesn't exist, because he knows now that it does. Not that it's harmless—that would be an impossible lie.

He doesn't know what he wants.

So he simply says, "Help me."

John's eyebrows arch in disbelief, and, with a low sigh, he raises a hand—perfectly steady, not shaking like Sherlock's own—to his forehead, massaging his temples wearily. Sherlock watches in tense silence, fingers tightly gripping the thick wooden arms of the chair he's sitting in, entirely aware of how uncharacteristic and weak-sounding his last statement was. The crackling of the soft flames contained in the fireplace before them adds ambience to what would otherwise be a completely mute atmosphere, and the golden orange shadows flit across John's face, accentuating its weary lines.

"…Okay." The doctor drops his hand and stands suddenly. "Up you get."

"What? Why?" Sherlock demands defensively.

"Because I'm going to help you." It's an ambiguous answer, and not one that he necessarily trusts, but he humors it anyway, getting to his feet and standing there stiffly.

John takes a step and a half forward, neatly closing the distance between them, then opens his arms and calmly wraps them around Sherlock's thin form, just holding him there for a moment, his hands joined loosely, their chests pressing together. It's only when confronted with John's solid, warm body that Sherlock realizes just how cold his own is, just how much he's trembling.

"Just relax," John mumbles into his shoulder, lips moving against the fabric and sending strange electric chills down Sherlock's spine. "It'll be fine. Everything will be fine."

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, and his voice sounds too low and hard, too mechanical next to John's easily compassionate tones. Everyone in the pub is probably staring, and it feels like there might be a hot flush on his usually pale face, an actual, material flush…

"It's called a _hug, _and is, in fact, a gesture commonly shared between two human beings." John sounds sarcastic and fond both at once. Neither is an attitude that Sherlock particularly appreciates being directed towards himself, but it somehow comes off as not all that unappealing.

"I—"

"Just calm down. You asked me to help you, and so I am. Appreciate it while it lasts; you can't expect me to maintain this for too long."

He can't quite figure out why those words are a disappointment. 


	6. Break Away

**A/N** _I wrote this before the airing of 'The Reichenbach Fall,' so I used the traditional Reichenbach setup, Swiss waterfall and all. :3_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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VI. Break Away

The water is everywhere, swirling in eddies and whirlpools, foaming like the mouth of a rabid beast, with dark, slick rocks jutting out—teeth, deadly, hungry teeth. His trousers and the legs concealed beneath them are frozen with liquid ice, the inevitable chill working its way into his very bone marrow. Everything he wears is heavy and sodden. The wind cuts through the torn, muddy remains of his coat like an avenging knife, and it whips furiously around his knees, throwing his bloodied hair over his forehead and aggravating the wound there where it had scraped against rock. His skull throbs underneath the external injury, along with something unidentifiable in his chest, which seems to flare up every time he thinks of what he has to do next.

A voice cuts over the deafening rush of water, ricocheting off the gleaming boulders framing it—a terrified, raw, broken sound, laden with despair.

_"Sherlock!"_

He closes his eyes briefly, as though that can block out the agony of his own name. That's _his _voice, John's voice, and he's never heard it so emotional, so… tormented. He wants more than anything to locate one of the thin, winding trails off the cliff side, to stumble his way back to the top, to tell John that, yes, he is alive, and that Moriarty's dead and everything will be okay now.

But he can't. He can't, because bloody Moran is still out there, and though he honestly couldn't care less whether or not he himself ishurt or killed—it would be worth it to see John's smile one last time—it would endanger his flatmate, as well. And that's something that he just can't risk. Moriarty and Moran both have done enough damage already. John doubtless wouldn't think this any decent sort of reason to withhold, but it is. He'll be able to move on, eventually. Isn't that what people do after losing a—a loved one?

For some reason, thinking of himself in this context hurts, causes his throat to go oddly sore and his eyes to sting. He raises his hand in puzzlement, pressing it to his cheek, and when he pulls it away, his fingers are damp with moisture saltier than that from the Falls.

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!_"

Each syllable is a rough, twisting stab into his chest, compressing his lungs so that it hurts to breathe. He begins wading blindly through the chaotic pool, thoughtless, fighting uselessly to escape the awful, wrenching sobs of his friend that are now echoing in the misty air around him.

_Please, John. Stop. It's fine now, it's okay. I'm here, I'm alive… I'm alive and he's not, he's dead, I've won… we've won…!_

It crosses his mind that he could try and let John know of his fate somehow—but, no, that wouldn't work. John's too idiotic, too absolutely stupid to keep it a secret…

John. His John. His stupid, wonderful, brave, brilliant John who will be alone now, who will go home to an empty 221b that he probably won't be able to afford on his own… he'll be leaving, then, leaving and going to live somewhere else… maybe with one of his girlfriends, who might even become a wife…

Sherlock will be back, though, back before that has time to happen. Within a year. Two years, surely… _three. _Yes, that's how long it will take before Moran is satisfied, most likely. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days.

_In three years, I'll come back, John. Don't you dare forget about me. Keep counting the days, because I'll be back, and to hell with Sebastian Moran. _

_I _will _be back for you._

With that final parting thought, he starts off, and he doesn't look back.


	7. Heaven

**A/N** _Nothing much to say~ Review? _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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VII. Heaven

"But as a place, John—as an actual, material location in the universe, it _doesn't exist._"

John sighs and sits back a bit farther in his chair, clearly frustrated with the religious conversation even though it's thus far lasted for only a few minutes. Sherlock isn't, though. He loves this, persuading people out of their unfounded, immaterial beliefs, attempting to prove just how wrong they are. It feels good to use his own intelligence to unwind stupid myths like this.

"That's not the point," the blonde doctor objects. He's hard to work against; all of Sherlock's words rebound off upon encountering the hardened shell that comes with years of praying and pledging blind faith, built up so that not a single crack spiders across it, leaving his defenses virtually impenetrable. "Lives—souls—they don't really have physical substance, do they? It's a sort of… alternate plane, a… realm crafted of emotions, if you will."

Sherlock snorts, not bothering to hold back an expression of delighted incredulity. "A _realm crafted of emotions? _Do you hear what you're saying?"

"It's a… happy place. Just try to imagine this for a second."

He shrugs, implying neutrality.

"Imagine somewhere where nothing hurts. Everything is wonderful, there's no doubt or dread, it's just… contentment, universal contentment."

"But I _can't _imagine that, because it's impossible. When people die, they don't go to some—some magical sparkly fairyland." Sherlock waves a hand vaguely in the air for a moment, then drops it to his side. "They just _die. _Nothing comes after."

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It turns into a much bigger argument than Sherlock originally anticipated. In fact, John refuses to talk to him for a day, and when he does begin to warm up again, it's a slow process. But as the days, the cases, and the countless cups of tea whisk by, the feud eventually fades away, until the bond between the two men is only stronger for having suffered damage.

They fight other times, too—some of their conflicts larger than that concerning heaven, some smaller. But they always make it through, even when the most ragged of holes is torn in their relationship: Sherlock fakes his suicide at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and John is positive for three whole years that he's alone, alone for the rest of his days, that the time when their lives intersected was nothing more than a far-fetched dream.

Sherlock comes back, though, and once John's initial shock fades, it's evident that something has changed. They're closer, much closer—it's a sort of accepted fact that John doesn't have any girlfriends anymore, that they don't need the upstairs bedroom and it ends up being converted to a storage area.

And during these nights, they'll both lie under the covers in the warm darkness, listening to each other's slow, heavy breaths, John's head on Sherlock's chest and his hand on John's, so that they can feel both of their heartbeats pounding away together, undivided and inseparable, knowing and thinking of nothing but the other. In these moments, these tiny, sweet, silent moments, Sherlock sometimes suspects that there is a heaven after all. But it's not in the sky, not in the afterlife, nothing unreasonable like that. Maybe it's right here, right now, as they drift off to sleep together. Because, much as he strains his mind, he can't fathom anything better.


	8. Innocence

**A/N** _This is probably a good time to mention that I don't consider all of these drabbles to exist in the same universe, so to speak. Many of them follow different little timelines, so I suppose each could be considered a separate story. That's all~_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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VIII. Innocence

"And, of course, it's crossed my mind several times that you might end up wishing to be… _involved _with my brother."

The constant twirl of Mycroft's umbrella has always been somewhat hypnotic, but it's fascinating just how much more so it has suddenly become, as though its owner's words have laced the misty air outside Baker Street with some sort of dizzying drug. John finds himself transfixed as the accessory's tip cuts patterns in the nothingness, until it's brought up to Mycroft's side with a sharp snap and held there.

"John." His voice is vaguely disapproving, the tone probably caused by the flush that feels as though it's rapidly singeing away John's skin. "You of all people, as a relatively close acquaintance of mine, are perfectly aware by now that few things escape my notice. And you are a rather obvious man—indeed, if Sherlock wasn't so naïve about issues this delicate in nature, I'm sure he would have realized it himself."

John sucks in a deep breath and forces his head to tilt back, so that he can properly look Mycroft in the eyes. "What are you getting at?"

He leans forward slightly, and his next words are clearly enunciated, slicing though John's eardrums quickly and cleanly. "Are you sexually interested in Sherlock Holmes?"

Sounds come from John's mouth before he has time to think them through. "And why is that any of your business?"

"He's my brother," Mycroft responds delicately. "Obviously, it's a concern of mine."

"Did you ever consider that perhaps it's none of your business?"

A humorless smile pulls at Mycroft's thin lips. "You've played that card before with me, Dr. Watson. It should be evident by now that it has no effect."

"It's the only answer that you're going to get."

"So it's a yes, then."

"I never said that."

"But you stopped denying it."

John hesitates, his gaze briefly flickering to the brass-numbered door of the flat that contains Sherlock, and expels a lungful of air, watching as it floats away as chilled vapor. "…I'm in love with him, Mycroft," he says, quietly, simply. "He doesn't know, and I've got no idea how he'll react once he does. But, honestly, nothing that you have to say on the matter will change whatever I might intend to do in the future."

Mycroft nods once, his expression impassive, then runs his tongue along his bottom lip with the attitude of one choosing his next words with the utmost care. "Well, as reluctant as I am to say this, I suppose that we've ventured into waters where my advice is neither appreciated nor effective. So there's truly only one thing I have to say."

John jerks his head slightly, an indication to go on.

"…Be careful with him, John." There's an odd look in his eyes, almost foggy—as close to emotional as John ever could have expected to see Mycroft Holmes. "He's never been involved in anything like this before, and, to put it bluntly, he has no idea what he's doing."

"…And that's all?" John shifts self-consciously, his hands balled into fists in his jacket pockets, clenching and unclenching.

"That's all."

"Okay, well… thanks, I guess. But, er—he's actually expecting me now, and I should probably get this in the refrigerator…" He holds up his arm, which is laden down with a plastic shopping bag containing two cartons of milk. "So… afternoon."

"Good day, Dr. Watson." Mycroft waits until the door to 221b has swung completely shut, then pulls out his mobile phone just as it resonates with the beep of a text alert.

_So?_

_He confessed fully. You're in luck. _

There's an unnecessarily long pause before another message arrive.

_Thank you._

_Sherlock, are you being gracious? I should save this text and put it on display in a museum. _

This time, there's no response at all. Mycroft glances up towards the window to Sherlock and John's living room, only to see that the curtains have been shut.

"The virgin," he murmurs to himself. Then, with a slight chuckle, he ducks into the dark car waiting on the curb, just as the first raindrops begin to fall.


	9. Drive

**A/N** _A more lighthearted one this time around. I wrote it when I was really tired, too xD This could be set anywhere in the series, I suppose, but I guess I imagine it to be between TBB and TGG. _

**Thanks to** _Smilers and Winders__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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IX. Drive

There are many, many things about Sherlock Holmes that, to John, at least, are a mystery. After all, the workings of his mind itself are truly nothing but a massive enigma, so it only makes sense that less significant aspects of his being should be their own puzzles. And yet, on occasion, John is surprised to discover that some of his flat mate's more foggy aspects have never truly been secrets; he's simply never bothered to ask the limitless questions swimming around what, according to Sherlock, is a relatively empty mind, and therefore they're remained unresolved. And, at times, these un-catalogued characteristics present themselves most unexpectedly.

Take driving, for instance. John's never had any reason to believe that Sherlock, who only ever takes cabs, knows a thing about how to operate a wheel. But when, after a decidedly unlikely series of events, the two find themselves in a truck full of solid gold bars with a number of armed robbers on their tail, he learns better.

"Sherlock!" John yells as a bullet sails over his head. He flings himself against the passenger door, hands fumbling in his jacket for his own revolver. "I'm going to throw you the gun, I need you to cover me so that I can get around to your side!"

"Why?" he shouts back, sounding maddeningly calm despite the cacophony of deafening bangs ringing through the otherwise silent air.

"So that I can drive the damn thing and get us the hell _out _of here?"

"I can just as well, you realize." There are multiple slams from Sherlock's side of the car, and then the door next to John springs open. He jumps in without thinking, ducking a shot that sends several long cracks over the thankfully bulletproof window.

"What do you mean, you can?" he pants.

Instead of giving a verbal response, Sherlock violently turns the key that's already sitting in the ignition, and the vehicle roars to life, shooting forwards so quickly that John's teeth rattle. He's thrown against the back of his own seat and ends up clinging to it as the truck veers around a sharp bend and cruises up the empty road.

"I didn't know you could drive," he gasps out.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock questions, sounding almost offended.

"Oh, I don't know, just—" John's grumble breaks off in a sharp yelp as the wheels go flying over a particularly deep indentation in the road. "Are you sure you _do _know how to?"

"Roughly forty-three percent certain." Sherlock's knuckles are even whiter than usual on the steering wheel, and his gaze is glued to the window.

"Forty—? Oh, for God's sake." With no thought save that inclined towards preserving both of their endangered lifespans, John leans sideways and places his own hands over Sherlock's, guiding them as best as he can considering his awkward position. "There. Try to keep to the left. Didn't you say that Lestrade was coming with backup? Because, no offense or anything, but we could _really _use that right now."

As if on cue, a police cruiser, sirens ablaze, comes wailing out from behind a grove of trees and skids to a halt just as John thrusts his foot onto the brakes, ending up winding his leg between Sherlock's in the process. A number of officers, including Detective Inspector Lestrade, burst out and swarm around the truck of gold bars, raising their weapons in the direction of their pursuers, who surrender almost immediately at the sight of the backup force.

John exhales in relief and sinks back into his seat, then suddenly notes the rather tangled position that he and Sherlock have worked themselves into. Reddening, he hurriedly disengages himself and apologizes in a hasty mutter.

Sherlock's lips frame the words _You don't have to say sorry, _but no sound comes out.


	10. Breathe Again

**A/N** _Alternate ending to the pool scene, I suppose. I actually wrote a longer, slightly different version of this (by 'longer,' I mean 8000 words o.o), which can be found under the name 'Elemental' on my profile. Also (THIS IS IMPORTANT): I'm going to be gone for about a week and a half (no internet), so don't be expecting updates during that time._

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

X. Breathe Again

John leaps forward just as the pool explodes.

A gigantic _boom _rings through his ears and flames flare up behind eyes that he forces closed, and he flings his arms forward blindly, managing to secure his hands tightly around a slim, suited arm that he can only pray is Sherlock's and not Moriarty's. They fall through the air for a moment before splitting the surface of the water, and John only just has time to cup a hand over his nose and mouth, not entirely blocking them from the stinging rush of chlorine that presses in on his eardrums as they plunge together like rocks. The whole world slows and becomes distant, so that the raging fire surely caused by the eruption is nothing but a faint rumble. Already, John's lungs are screaming for oxygen, but he forces himself to stay under until a deeper black than visual darkness begins to taunt the edges of his mind. Forcing his eyes open against the angry burn of the water, he kicks rapidly, beginning to ascend.

But something is wrong.

_Sherlock. _

Why isn't he trying to swim?

John loops his arm around the vague blur that's all he can discern of his companion, refusing to acknowledge the doubts churning in his stomach, cruel whispers that maybe he wasn't fast enough, perhaps Moriarty's sniper had just enough time to fire… his legs cycle harder than ever, and just as he feels ready to burst, his head breaks through the surface.

He gasps, taking in deep lungfuls of air as he uses one arm to lift himself out of the water, climb out onto the side. Everything is aflame and at least partially collapsed, and he's kneeling in a mass of charred rubble, the fire there thankfully extinguished by overflowing pool water…

He's hardly acknowledging this, though, fixated as he is on Sherlock. He clutches the limp detective's shoulders and biceps, struggling and slowly managing to drag him out of the destroyed pool, onto solid ground, where he lies with an awful stillness, water streaming off of him.

John's hands move without thinking, probing over Sherlock's chest, searching for some sort of a wound. But though the whole front of his suit is wet, it doesn't carry a trace of the deadly heat of blood. His fingers hesitate over the place where his medical experience tells him the heart resides.

Nothing.

"No, no, don't be ridiculous," he mutters to himself, shocked at how hollow and cracked his words are. Sherlock is fine, of course he is—John's just too nervous and worked up to feel the delicate thrum of a heartbeat, that's all. So he kneels down farther, pressing his ear against Sherlock's shirt, which is sodden to the point of transparency.

Still, it's silent. So silent…

John is suddenly moving at an absurd pace, his actions detached from the sick drop of his stomach and the throbbing chorus of _no, no, no _that rings clearly through his mind. His hands are pumping, slamming and crashing down onto Sherlock's ribcage, furiously prompting his heart and lungs. And then, in an action that somehow doesn't at all feel like that of a doctor, he lowers his head and brushes his warm lips against Sherlock's cool ones, tingling chills running through his body, only remembering at the last moment what he's doing, how he has to pinch the nose shut and exhale fully into the mouth that his own is touching, move his head back down to the chest, listen, up again, breathe, wait…

It's with a massive, hacking cough that Sherlock comes back, and John springs away, giving the dark-haired man room to convulse and choke water up out of his lungs, gagging and twitching for what seems like it must be multiple minutes before he finally falls back, gasping raggedly.

"John…" The cracked rasp slips out of him, and it's all the indication that the doctor needs to scramble forwards, to scoop Sherlock's horribly shivering form up into his arms and begin whispering ceaseless reassurances into his ear.

"It's all right, we both made it, Moriarty's gone, Lestrade will be coming soon, everything will be fine, every single little thing will be just fine now…"

He stays like that, rocking Sherlock back and forth, and he doesn't intend to stop anytime soon.


	11. Memory

**A/N** _Lalala, I'm back~_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XI. Memory

At first, in the midst of the bullets raining down on him and the shouts of surprise from his and Sherlock's assailants, John doesn't think much of the noise. It's nothing more than a cry that greatly resembles the one which rang through the air directly before he was shot in Afghanistan—eerie, certainly, but not entirely implausible. He's still here, still firmly rooted in this alleyway, crouching behind a trash can that rattles as it's bombarded with gunshots. Sherlock is a few meters away, peering out behind his own garbage bin during a pause.

But when the fire resumes, everything else starts to waver.

"_Dr. Watson, take cover!" _

It's certainly not Sherlock's voice, and yet John can't help but whip his head around in confusion. He's not greeted by the night's damp blackness, however, but rather by a flash of sunlight that momentarily blinds him. His hands slip in the sand—but, wait, where could sand be coming from? The only thing touching his palms is cracked asphalt—but then why is it glittering viciously in the light that shouldn't be there in the first place?

His mind is fragmented, confused bits of sensory input whirling through a humming void, and he's aware of tumbling down a blazing dune just as surely as he feels his head hit a decidedly cold and wet ground as he involuntarily slumps, rendered entirely, off guard by his sudden and ragingly vivid memory of the war.

_"Watson!"_

_"Move, man, you're a sitting duck like that!" _

_"Is he shot?"_

"No, I'm fine, I'm…"

"_Then get up! People need you!"_

"I feel… bad…"

_"For God's sake, Watson!"_

"John?"

That's his voice… that's Sherlock's voice, and it's like an anchor dragging him back into the present, weighting him there as he blinks in confusion and rolls over, facing the night sky. A cold breeze rolls off his face—no, it's a hot gust of dry air, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the brilliantly fiery midday sun glaring down upon the desert.

_"I think Dr. Watson's down, but I can't find a wound!"_

_"Could be heat stroke. Has he fainted?"_

_"No, he's conscious, I think…"_

"I'm—I'm fine, I'm… I mean it… really…"

"John, can you hear me?"

_Yes. Yes, I can hear you. _Sherlock's voice is by far the clearest thing in this bleary mess, and John clutches onto it like a lifeline, struggling to feel solid ground under his back instead of shifting sand, to register where he is and who needs him.

"Sherlock! Great, you're—oh, God, what happened? John?"

That's someone else's voice, but it belongs here with Sherlock's, not in Afghanistan—it's heavily toned with a smoky London accent… _Lestrade, _John realizes, and is instantly pleased with himself for coming up with the name. Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's here now, which must mean that the criminals and their guns are being dealt with, that it's over…

John takes a deep, shaky breath as Sherlock's pale face wavers into existence above his own. Another draft of chilly air soothes John's skin, upon which a thin layer of sweat has formed, and his eyes flicker sideways to find an alarmed-looking Lestrade crouching down next to him. He registers that he's sprawled on his back, and hastily pulls himself into a sitting position, bracing his elbows against the rain-stained street.

"You alright, there?" Lestrade asks a bit nervously.

"Yeah… fine…" John gazes around wearily. "Just some sort of… of flashback…"

"Gunshots probably prompted it." Sherlock sits back, and some of the tension seems to leave his face, though it's still abnormally pale. "Are you sure you're okay, John?"

He nods, running a hand over his forehead. "I'm definitely here now. And damn glad, I have to say."


	12. Insanity

**A/N** _Wow, I've managed to forget about updating every day for a whole week. xD Sorry about that, I'll try to be more consistent from now on. _

**Thanks to** _wrytingtyme and Sylvia Griffin3_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XII. Insanity

Not many people understand just how necessary it is for Sherlock to, as constantly as possible, have a case. They assume that it's his entertainment or something of the like, a way to pass the time, and that the twitchy restlessness that plagues him in the absence of a good mystery is nothing more substantial than boredom.

They're all utter idiots, of course. They don't understand the complex, well-oiled gears of his mind, don't understand how, with no traction to slow them down, they'll run themselves faster and faster until his very skull seems to be approaching combustion. A case gives him something to unravel, a target at which to direct the furious energy which otherwise comes off him in electric waves and sparks. And when he has nothing on, the best he can do is curl on the couch and try, try as hard as he can to just make it all go away.

Smoking helped, back when he allowed himself access to that particular escape hatch. The soothing haze would settle over his mind like a fluffy carpet of dust, blurring and twisting his thoughts until they resembled the rainbow-hued gleam of oil in a parking lot puddle, delicately insubstantial and glinting under the foggy sun. That was always such a beautiful relief. But, of course, it had to be taken away—by a combination of himself, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, John.

John also does something to aid his exhausted, hyperactive mind on those days when it seems truly unbearable. There's something calming about just watching the easy, regular movements of the ex-soldier, following the contours of his body as he reads the paper, calls his sister, updates his blog, makes a cup of tea.

Those are his specific motions today, in that order, and Sherlock knows because he's been watching him in perfect silence for the past hour and a half now. It's some time past noon on a Sunday, and, judging by his furtive glances at the refrigerator, nearing lunchtime for John—and, if he's feeling particularly giving, perhaps Sherlock, as well. Of course, the blonde doctor currently has no cause to possess this attitude, considering that his flatmate has been notably lethargic for about six hours on end now. Blame it on the lack of clients.

In fact, Sherlock's so sure that John's suppressing irritation within him that he's only a degree short of blatant surprise when a cup of steaming tea thuds onto the coffee table before him.

He raises his eyes to where John stands, arms folded and face set as though he's preparing to extract information from a particularly nasty murderer.

"What's this?" Sherlock inquires. His voice flows remarkably well for not having been used all day.

"Tea."

"For me?"

"Who else?"

He lazily extends an arm and loops his thin fingers around the warm handle of the mug, bringing it to his lips and taking a shallow sip. It's surprisingly pleasant, not to strong and flavored subtly.

"Well, whatever might this be for? Some special occasion?"

John shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "I just thought you looked a bit stressed. Tea tends to help, in my experience."

"It does… thank you."

The words of gratitude are unusual to Sherlock's mouth, but absolutely worth it for the barely disguised smile that spreads over John's face at their mention.

"You're welcome."


	13. Misfortune

**A/N** _Next one is set a bit after ASIP, so the early days of their acquaintance. Again, I apologize for the absurdly slow updates, but I keep on forgetting! To address maggiemacjack's comments: there are indeed some chapters later on with a more sexual sort of relationship between John and Sherlock. However, most of them are more ambiguous and could be considered a deep platonic relationship, and since there's no real sequence to all these (they don't even all exist in the same reality!), it's perfectly fine to skip over those ones, and feel absolutely free to.  
_

**Thanks to** _LittleMisChevious, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, maggiemacjack, and Pyreflies Painter_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

VIII. Misfortune

"You deserve better than him, you know."

"Sorry?" John hesitates mid-stride, letting Sherlock's taller, darker figure recede ahead of him into the crowd surrounding the crime scene, and turns back to where the subdued voice came from. Sergeant Sally Donovan is poised with one hand on her hip, clutching a walkie-talkie. She's wearing an odd expression, one that seems out of place perched on her usually disdainful features. She seems almost pitying, and John can tell that the words are a bit of a challenge for her.

"Sherlock, I mean. It's just… you seem like a good person, Dr. Watson, and I'm sorry that you were unlucky enough to end up with him. This is your, what, third case? Second? At Lauriston Gardens he drove off in a cab, and look now—isn't even glancing back towards you."

Reluctantly, John checks this statement, only to find that it's completely true. Sherlock's no longer visible amongst the many mulling bodies that fill the London streets.

"I just want to say"—Donovan's eyes flash momentarily—"_get out _while you still can, because seeing you like this is _stressful. _I hardly know anything about Sherlock Holmes, and I wish I knew less, but I can promise this much: the day that you got a flat share with him, that was the biggest mistake of your life."

Disgust begins to creep up around the edges of his stomach, souring the knot in his chest that's already burning with suppressed frustration. "And how would you know?" he spits out with a good deal more venom than originally intended. She isn't _trying _to be such an absolute bitch, after all—apparently, such a thing comes naturally for a person like Sally Donovan. Still, he tries to bring his tone down a bit. "I think I know my life a bit better than you, to be completely honest. I _fought _in _Afghanistan, _and you call _this _the biggest mistake of my life? Sergeant Donovan, I—the truth is, these few days that I've spent with Sherlock have been the most _amazing _of my life, not the worst." For some reason, this declaration—this _confession—_feels exposing, humiliating, and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart.

Donovan looks more than a little taken aback at this sort of speech, and she shrugs, sending the curls framing her face aquiver. "You'll learn better, eventually," she mutters. "I've known him for three years now, and you barely three days. We're all taken in at first, you know. He has that _feel _about him—it almost draws you in—but he's twisted inside, absolutely rotten, just a dormant psychopath waiting for his chance to strike. And when he does strike, Dr. Watson—he's going to strike at _you._"

"Then let him," John says simply, without the slightest hesitation. "Better me than someone else, because I know him. I think—I believe that he's a good man, a brilliant one, and nothing you have to say is going to convince me otherwise."

"John!"

Sherlock's voice comes from behind him, and he looks over to see Sherlock shouldering his way over, calling his name repeatedly.

"Guess he didn't leave me behind after all," John grins to Donovan's stony face, then, without farther delay, hurries off.


	14. Smile

**A/N** _I really, really need to update more often, wow...  
_

**Thanks to** _maggiemacjack, johnsarmylady, and Guest (would I be correct in assuming this to be Natalie? ;3)_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XIV. Smile

There aren't many things in the world that can make Sherlock Holmes smile. He's never much understood the point of the gesture, really. People are so pathetic, wearing their emotions blazing across their features, a constant scream for attention, all of those silent voices unconsciously competing against one another to saturate the atmosphere with their own specific attitude.

No, Sherlock's always been much subtler than that. He'll give them a smirk, but that's all—just a clever brag, to put them in their place and remind them that he is—and always will be—ahead of them. Because it's true. His mind is legions above theirs, always has been and always will be. He may not be a good person, and yet he's still _better _than them, superior in the arrangement of the Earth's citizens.

John changed things.

Before the army doctor, Sherlock didn't have any friends, no real ones. Mycroft was a grudging relative, Mrs. Hudson an overly fond landlady (not his housekeeper), Lestrade and Sally colleagues, Anderson a… slug. But John, when he finally came along, simply didn't fit into any of these suddenly limited categories. Because he isn't just an aspect of Sherlock's existence. Perhaps it's simply because they live together, but… no, that can't be it. Even flat mates have the ability to associate as little as possible, if that's what they genuinely desire.

But Sherlock and John have _bonded, _fused their lives together permanently. They haven't just brushed against each other, slipped by, glancing off and moving on their own individual paths. No, the two of them have collided in a burning explosion of crimson flames and amber sparks, destroying and completing each other simultaneously, permanently rewriting their biology to better suit each other.

Naturally, this is more than apparent to the majority of those who see them, even though the two men themselves manage to remain remarkably ignorant, almost like they don't want to be aware of the iron-hard bonds attaching them to each other, fierce and steely and unbreakable. Lestrade is the best at restraining his questions, probably because his knowledge of Sherlock runs deeper than others'. The detective might be in love with his assistant—that's certainly how everyone else views it—but the policeman is wise enough to hold back his inquiries.

Donovan isn't too good. It's almost like she wants to annoy Sherlock with her constant taunts, and she almost certainly does. It's the same for the rest of them, more or less; even random people on the street, when confronted with the sight of Sherlock and John, automatically and even unwillingly wonder whether or not they might be a couple. It's a reflexive association, because every single that the two project says that their so-called "friendship" is beyond platonic.

Sherlock doesn't comprehend any of this. Perhaps because love is such an abstract concept to him—something to be observed but never, ever experienced. It only makes sense that he wouldn't—and that he _doesn't—_recognize the alien emotion when it finally takes hold of him. Odd, how he manages to be blind to his own internal workings when everyone else's are as clear as the map of the Underground.

His feelings still show themselves, though, in small, special ways. John is the only one to be given a "please," "thank you," or "sorry." He's the only person that can truly inspire fear in the detective, when endangered.

But the best thing of all, the purest, most innocent, most uncharacteristic gesture to pass between them is a quieter, smaller one. Neither of the participants are fully aware of it, but to onlookers, to Mrs. Hudson and Molly, to Lestrade and Mycroft, it's as vivid as the first touch of sunshine to grace the horizon each morning: John Watson is the only thing in the universe that can make Sherlock Holmes smile.


	15. Silence

**A/N** _GUYS. I'M ACTUALLY UPDATING ON TIME. LIKE WHOA. This is post-Reichenbach, obviously~  
_

**Thanks to** _maggiemacjack, MapleleafCameo, and eohippus_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XV. Silence

The flat is empty, and John hates it.

It seems to smother him, almost, the silence pounding in furiously on his eardrums, the absurdly still air poisoning his skin until it seems to fester, and he has to brush at it, disrupting the sick, diseased lack of energy.

There's no one _here, _no one but John. And, being himself, does he even qualify as an occupant? He certainly isn't any sort of _company. _In fact, his own existence seems to inflate the absence of any other, makes it ring, echo, scream, building up inside of him, tearing, ripping, devouring like a rabid beast, more and more until it's _gone, _until he's empty again and feels like he should be able to crumble and collapse just to fill the consuming gap that seems to be all he consists of. It will happen again, though—the pain. He knows it will. It's a constant, hellish cycle, and the best he can fathom, it's one that he'll continue to spiral down for the rest of his life. People claim to "get over" losing loved ones eventually, but that isn't going to happen. It can't possibly happen.

Because this isn't just any person. This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, and he's dead.

Sherlock is _dead. _

His body flashes before John's eyes again, suddenly, the awful stark white of his bloodless skin looking so fake, so empty, the unruly dark curls plastered with violently bright scarlet streaks, and the eyes—God, the eyes. John knows them so well, that gorgeous, icy grey-green—he's seen them dark with contempt and alight with energy, sparked by a new idea or dulled by the lack of one, even shining with nervous dears, back at Cross Keys Pub in Baskerville. But on that body—on that corpse, that empty shell that will never again hold the childish, cold, infuriating, stuck-up, smartass, absolutely _heroic _man who had unwillingly rescued John from his quiet, lonely misery after the war—those eyes were _blank, _holding nothing, because they'll never see John's face again, never see anything. And now the ex-army doctor was back to square one, back with absolutely nothing but the awful emptiness that was the consequence for his eighteen wonderful months with Sherlock.

A year and a half. Such an insignificant amount of time, but he'll never be the same man again now. Now the dull Dr. John Watson who had come out of Afghanistan with a psychosomatic limp and an uneven tan. He's _the _Dr. Watson now, the deerstalker detective's companion, sidekick, confidant; he's bachelor John Watson next to boffin Sherlock Holmes, he's _confirmed _bachelor John Watson, he's—

All part of the lie.

Because that's what the public has accepted now. Some people still refuse to believe it, other than John, that is. Mrs. Hudson knew the real Sherlock, and so did Molly Hooper. John hasn't said a word to Mycroft since the actual event—he hates the damn man too much for everything he did—but he knows for a fact that most everyone else believes the papers. Anderson and Donovan, of course. Lestrade, in his quiet, apologetic way. Even John's own friends, Mike and Bill, even Harry, and she isn't too sensitive about it, either.

Irene Adler would know better.

The name is a bizarre, practically random one, but John is immediately sure that it's true. Irene's smart. She saw Sherlock for who he really was. And for a moment, a single, blazing, uplifting moment, John imagines tracking her down, finding her, seeing her face and just _talking _about him to her, about Sherlock, because he could, and she would listen—

Irene Adler is dead.

And then it hits him again, in a massive wave of emotion so great that all he wants is for it to end. Irene Adler is dead, James Moriarty is dead, _Sherlock Holmes _is dead. And he, John Watson, is the only one left to carry all of their memories in his already haunted mind, left completely alone with the all-too-familiar silence.


	16. Questioning

**A/N** _Another on-time update! Yay!  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady and Fayet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XVI. Questioning

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock decides, is awfully interfering. Of course, it _is _his job, being a policeman, but that doesn't change the fact that he gets on Sherlock's damn _nerves. _He's always been somewhat nosy, and yet this is just ridiculous.

"What exactly is the relationship between you and John?"

That's what he's asking now, and it's phrased professionally, astute, direct, as though he's questioning one of the criminals that he's so often subjected to. Hopefully this isn't nearly that official. Chances are that he'll be reporting back to Anderson and Donovan, but it shouldn't go beyond that. His posture—leaning slouched against the back of his swivel chair, hands behind his head and eyebrows half-raised—is casual enough, and the timing of his inquiry—shot towards Sherlock's back as he passes towards the door—makes it look random, impulsive. His tone is just a hint too airy, though, and Sherlock's clever enough to realize that Lestrade's been wondering this for quite a while now.

The consulting detective doesn't move, but his hand drops from the door handle. He takes a slow, deep breath, and his body stiffens. There it is again, that absurd suspicion that most of Scotland Yard seems to harbor. _Everyone _thinks they're a couple, in fact, not just the Yarders.

"He is my associate," Sherlock growls through his teeth, the words cold and precise. He's glaring at the door like it's committed a personal offense against him, though the actual one to do so, of course, is in the opposite direction.

"Your associate who… lives with you?"

"He's my _flat mate, _Lestrade. Hardly unusual—in fact, you'll find that it's rather common for two men to share housing these days."

"Share housing, sure. But…"

"What are you implying?" Sherlock snarls as though it isn't exceedingly obvious, turning around sharply to face the Detective Inspector. Lestrade just shrugs, looking remarkably unfazed.

"There's nothing _to _imply," he points out. "It's just that the majority of the force is more than a little curious. Thought I might do a little digging, see if there's anything you care to tell us that we didn't know about."

"Well, I'm afraid your colleagues are going to be disappointed, Inspector," Sherlock shoots back. "There's nothing going on between us that you don't know about, and if you have any idea what's good for you, you might actually want to shut up right about now and stay that way."

Lestrade sighs. "Yeah, well…" The next words are muttered just under his breath. "…Maybe you don't realize it yourself."

"Realize _what?_" Sherlock notices vaguely that his own breath is coming out a bit faster, and that his face seems to be radiating heat. He knows, of course, exactly what the policeman is talking about.

He also knows that he's probably right, but there's no need to admit as much.

"Nothing, nothing," Lestrade murmurs hastily. He leans forward and busies himself with a stack of papers on his desk. He shuffles it a couple of times, everything about his posture visibly communicating that Sherlock ought to leave now.

The detective feels odd, though. Uncertain, hesitating, like simply exiting the room at this point would feel wrong. His hand is back on the door handle, though, he's turning it…

"Maybe."

That's all he lets out, just those two extremely ambiguous syllables, and then he's out of there as fast as he possibly can move without looking rushed, pretending not to hear the far too entertained "What?" that comes from the office behind him.


	17. Blood

**A/N** _You can never have too much angst, right? Like the other most recent drabbles, this can be set at pretty much any point in the BBC Sherlock canon (season one, season two, post-Reichenbach return, whatever). The feedback has been incredibly encouraging, as usual!__  
_

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo and LittleMisChevious_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XVII. Blood

"Oh, God, no."

John isn't unused to blood—in fact, his career requires its presence to be remarkably abundant. But he never knows those who are injured—they're always nameless faces, nothing more, and he's coached himself to feel nothing more for them than a vaguely apologetic sympathy. If he grew attached to every one of his patients, then he'd probably be immobile with depression at this point. But while each injury he sees adds another measure of weight to his already heavy heart… the sight assaulting his eyes now completely removes it, leaving a sick, windy cavity in his chest that throws him off balance, so that his next steps, meant to be hasty, end up stumbling.

Sherlock's back is to him, the familiar black coat looking remarkably limp as it drapes over the injured detective's still, sprawled form. Multiple patches of it gleam dark, wet crimson in the moonlight, and the asphalt of the secluded alley is likewise stained scarlet. John's too unsteady to tell whether or not he's breathing, and manages to reach his side, tenderly gripping his shoulder with one hand and lifting his wrist with the other.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock._"

Sherlock's mobile phone clatters to the ground, slipping from his gloved hands. John recognizes faintly that he must have used his last reserves of energy to send the texts that had clued the doctor into his location—and such casual words they'd contained, too. _Ran into a spot of trouble. Your help would be appreciated. No rush._

He hadn't mentioned that he'd been _shot. _

And several times, too, it appears. Shaking far more than he probably should be, John overcomes his anxiety to move the prone body at all, forcing himself to ever so gently turn it onto his its back, paw away the dark, curly locks to reveal the pallid, waxy face, much paler than its usual creamy hue.

Sherlock's eyes are half-closed, but the visible crescents of misty green are remarkably lucid. "Took you long enough," he mumbles, the words slurring together despite his obvious effort to keep them steady.

"Why the hell didn't you say that—? No, don't talk… oh, God, why me? You should have called an ambulance, you absolute daft _idiot!_" John's own words remind him that he should probably be doing just that, and he pulls out his own phone, dials hurriedly, anxiously endures the monotonous buzzing of the ring while not moving his hard gaze. Sherlock's breaths are growing louder, and their scratchy noises are unsettling—terrifying, in fact.

The phone is finally picked up, and John spits out their location to the cool voice on the other end before slamming the device to the ground, gratefully returning the full hundred percent of his attention to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, just—just hold on, help is coming, I promise it is. Look at me, keep your eyes on me, _concentrate. _I need you to hold on, okay? Don't give up, don't you _dare _give up." It's a miracle that he's survived this long, considering the extent of the injuries. John's internally berating himself, thinking of how long he had sat in the cab on the way here, the slow steps that had carried him around the corner, and how, the whole time, Sherlock had been lying here… bleeding…

He's a doctor, and he should be doing something, but the best he can think of is to strip off his own jacket, pressing it against the wounds, his hands shaking madly.

"Please hold on…"

"I'm… fine…" His voice is worse now—thought the words are more distinguishable from one another, they're also soft, faint, more of a whisper than anything with real substance. _He's giving up, _John thinks wildly, frantically, and there's a fierce burning in his eyes and throat and a sick nothingness in his stomach, Sherlock's growing stiller, the blood is everywhere and there are sirens screaming in his ears, iron hands holding him back as Sherlock is carted away on a stretcher. All their movements are too sharp, like they don't understand how gentle they have to be, how absolutely, perfectly caring and tender.

And after what seems like mere moments, John finds himself alone again, clutching his jacket as tightly as he possibly can, staring at the empty, bloodstained ground with the night pressing in on him and his own words ringing through his frozen mind.

_Please hold on._


	18. Rainbow

**A/N** _And then there was utter crackfluff. ;P (and sorry, Mapleleaf, but only I will ever know if he survived that one ;D)__  
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**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, and estefani1509_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XVIII. Rainbow

John's the one to typically wear jumpers, in the first place. He has that rare something about him that makes such a ridiculous manner of dress not just acceptable, but almost… nice-looking. It's never come near crossing Sherlock's mind to say such a thing, of course—after all, his fashion sense, if it could be called that, is the very image of sleek superiority, tight-buttoned shirts and gleaming suits leaving only the question of how they could be afforded on the low budget that the two scrape by on. That's the kind of thing he wears, and chances are that it always will be. Nobody ever questions it.

Except, it would seem, for Harry Watson.

He stares down at the crumpled package in his lap, the thing apparently deemed a 'gift' peeking out from folds of glossy wrapping paper. He never expected any sort of present from John's sister, and was admittedly rather suspicious when initially confronted with it, but this is just absurd.

In fact, what _is _this?

A jumper, certainly, thick, soft, and cable-knit, like so many of John's. In fact, he would have thought it intended for the doctor if not for the very clearly inked name on the little reindeer-covered tag: _Sherlock Holmes, from Harry Watson. _In a suspiciously purposeful hand, though one obviously plagued with the shakiness of John's alcoholic sister.

The oddest thing about the garment is, however, its coloring. It's nothing unobtrusive such as dark grey or pale cream. The jumper is _eye-singeing, _dyed in thick, bold horizontal stripes of red, orange, green, blue, purple… a rainbow, in fact, or at least an overly vivid interpretation of one. Meant to be displayed across his chest, like some sort of… flag…

"Oh, God."

Hearing John's voice, he glances up, still absentmindedly rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers. His flatmate is watching him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and horror, half-bent over in the process of scooping up some other ripped remnants of wrapping paper scattered across the floor.

"Harry?" he asks, and Sherlock nods once. John proceeds to hastily intervene, tugging away the colorful clothing and swearing under his breath.

"It has some significance, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"The rainbow."

"Oh. Well…" John ducks away, but Sherlock, catching a glimpse of his face before it turns, notices a humiliated flush. "It's… representative of a certain… group of people, yes."

These words cause something buried deep inside his mind, something catalogued as _very unlikely to prove useful, _to stir. It takes less than a second to bring it up to the front, and once it's present, he realizes just how painfully obvious it is.

"LGBT," he growls delicately. Each syllable of the carefully enunciated acronym slips into the air as smoothly as a razor blade, and when he rotates his head to properly view John again, he finds the doctor to be seemingly paralyzed, the back of his neck flaming to the very roots of his dark blonde hair.

"Well… yeah. Don't take it personally. She's an idiot. Probably still suspicious of—well… of us. Just making ridiculous assumptions. I'll throw this rubbish out and give her a call… she probably thinks that this is _funny _somehow…"

His voice fades out as he exits the room, leaving Sherlock to stare vaguely into space. The four letters expand and contract in his mind's eye, rearrange themselves obsessively, drape their meanings before him, then whisk them away again.

_Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender. _

_Gay…_

_Interesting._


	19. Grey

**A/N** _I actually really like this one, so please tell me if you agree. Set in the middle of The Hounds of Baskerville, and yeah. We're almost a fifth of the way through, whoohoo! xD__  
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**Thanks to** _Fayet, ThisDayWillPass_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XIX. Grey

_Sort of… bleak, but beautiful. _

Henry Knight's description of Dartmoor, John concludes, was spot-on, and yet somehow lacking. The sparse words form only the frame of the marrow-deep chill that seems to emanate from the very landscape. He can only see bits of the moor itself, cresting gently over the low-roofed buildings sitting around Cross Keys Pub, but the cool, misty atmosphere that flavors it has filtered into the little village. It's minutes past six in the morning, silent and peaceful, and John's the only one up, perched on the dewy edge of a wooden bench, elbows settled on the neighboring tabletop, which the bartenders will be up to lay with breakfast preparations in half an hour or so now.

A bird trills from some secluded location, its warbling call accompanied by a ghostly howl of wind from out on the moor. It could be mistaken for a dog's cry, he theorizes, but only by someone suspecting such. His eyes strain against the thin wall of mist topping the hills, halfheartedly searching for the bulky shape of the fabled hound that they came here to search for.

_Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!_

He blinks, hard, trying to free his mind of the words, the memories. He came out here to clear his thoughts, not poison them farther with whispers of hounds, of UMQRA and Bluebell and Baskerville. And yet he's already suspecting that he should have stayed in bed, that perhaps thirty minutes of fresh air and solitude is the last thing he needs right now.

He's just begun to wonder if Sherlock is up when a weight settles on the bench next to him, answering the unspoken question. He doesn't look in its direction, doesn't so much as make a move to acknowledge his appearance.

A few seconds spin themselves out in silence. John continues to gaze into the grey distance, his fingers running restlessly over the damp surface of the rough wooden table, drumming out a low staccato beat that irritates them both. He doesn't stop, though, just continues in his attempt to drown the silence.

"Bit early to be up," Sherlock finally observes, the steadiness of his words making it evident that he'd been planning them.

"I suppose so. I was looking for a bit of privacy, actually. A chance to… mull over things." His words are more cutting than intended, and he's already registering them before Sherlock's next sentence.

"I could leave, if you wanted."

"No...! No. Don't, it's fine."

"Alright."

They lapse into silence again. Slowly, a question creeps to the front of John's mind, prickling and teasing. He manages to delay for about a minute and a half before voicing it.

"Can you appreciate it at all?"

He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, guesses the brows to be drawn down in puzzlement. "Appreciate what?"

"The… the moor. Its… beauty."

"Beauty isn't a factor in my thinking, John. You know that. I can't afford any sort of distraction that it might provide me with. I have to remain straightforward, see things as they are—not be fooled by a mask of false appeal."

"But it doesn't matter right now," John points out.

"On the contrary, we're in the middle of a case. It's never been more essential."

"Not right now. It's six in the morning—"

"Nine past, actually."

"It's nine past six in the morning, and no one's up but us."

"Us and the man two rooms down. According to the absence of his jacket and those footprints along the path, he went for a walk about half an hour ago. The familiarity and absentmindedness shown by the lightness of his tracks suggests that he does so every morn—"

"Sherlock," John sighs, finally looking over at his companion. The dark-haired detective's eyes are fixated on the misty distance. "You know what I mean. If you try, if you really try, can you see how gorgeous it is?"

"…Sometimes," he finally murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft, "almost."


	20. Fortitude

**A/N** _Drabble 20! We're now officially a fifth of the way through :B__  
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**Thanks to** _Fayet, johnsarmylady, and Guest_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XX. Fortitude

There's something about John Watson's very character that's undeniably extraordinary, and Sherlock always fails to pinpoint it. After all, his actual characteristics seem so average, so undeniably, pathetically mundane. He hates dogs and dislikes cats, but has a soft spot for kittens. He adores jam, strawberry the most, and prefers his tea without sugar. He sleeps on the left side of the bed, types with two fingers, watches Doctor Who with religious enthusiasm and doesn't mind a bit of Star Trek when it's thrown his way.

He's _dull._

But there's something else to him—a side that's more army than doctor, something iron-strong and fire-bright, something that glimmers in the depths of his dark blue eyes only when they're in the most deadly of dangers. He's a soldier. He's _killed _people.

Sherlock's killed, too—twice, to be exact, not including the people that he's indirectly sentenced to death. The first time was in the very early stages of his career—he was just twenty-one, a decade from meeting Lestrade and longer form being trusted enough to be let in on real cases. He was young, wild, desperate to prove himself in any way possible. Not a very promising combination of circumstances, and, incidentally, one that ended up with him cornered down a pitch-black alleyway with a Persian assassin holding a knife to his throat. He was frantic, as close to fear as he'd even been, and therefore could hardly be blamed for his next actions—the delivery of a sharp, direct jab to the assassin's nose, breaking it and successfully disorienting him, grab hold of his hand, twist it around just in time to impale the larger man on his own eight-inch blade. He slumped to the ground and was dead within seconds, blood bubbling at his pale lips, eyes misted with vengeful ghosts. That image has stayed with Sherlock for years, and he can see it now, remember how his breath caught in his throat, how his stomach clenched and he told himself that he'd never, never take another life, not with his own hands. This wasn't because he was scared or squeamish, wasn't because the action was on any level wrong—it had only been self-defense, after all—but because it made him feel _sick. _Diseased, contaminated. He had murdered. He was a murderer, and that label could never be revoked. He still wears it now, but anonymously. No one knows that he killed that assassin so many years ago. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not even John.

But they now about the second time.

Because the second time was right in front of them—well, not in front of Mycroft, but security cameras made it good as.

It wasn't a trained killer, the second time. Just an ordinary outlaw, a street criminal, ragged and half-crazy. While the other memory is perfectly clear, this one comes back in small, lightning-bright flashes. The gun, sleek and dark in the criminal's hand. Lestrade tossing Sherlock a weapon of his own, which he seized with no intention of using. Yells, scuffles.

And John's face, slightly turned, eyes wide and bright. The outline of their quarry's arm, raised and steady, the clean silhouette of the gun directed evenly at the unsuspecting doctor's heart.

He pulled the trigger without thinking. There was a crack, a cry, a thud, and silence, sudden, pressing, consuming silence.

"Thanks." That was all that John said, voice slightly breathless, eyes glimmering with gratitude and almost… admiration.

He nodded mutely at the time, just accepting, saying nothing. The words were still in his mind, though, burning and vivid, and they still are now. He knows that he'll never voice them, but they still refuse to go away, always present, always nagging.

_I'm nothing compared to you. _


	21. Vacation

**A/N** _Wow, lots of reviews this time! :D Thanks to each and every one of you. __  
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**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, Fayet, johnsarmylady, LinkinPark X, and Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXI. Vacation

"Venice!" John declares, gesturing to the winding expanse of canals, streets, and multicolored crowds. Sunlight glints on the water in undulating ripples, and wide crests of churches top the lower roofs of small buildings clustered over the man-made island. "Not bad, huh? Not a total waste of that client's ridiculous payment?"

Sherlock mutters something wordlessly under his breath, surveying their grand surroundings with a distinctly unimpressed air. "There's probably all matter of killings back home, Lestrade won't have a clue what to do…" His underwhelmed attitude is emphasized by the heavy black coat that, despite the pounding summer heat, he refuses to remove.

John sighs, wondering how it's even possible for the detective to care so little about the historic and architectural magnificence that they're surrounded by. It had taken a lot to persuade him to come to Italy in the first place; his not enjoying the vacation whatsoever is a bit of a damper on John's meekly hopeful spirits.

"Don't worry about Lestrade right now, oaky? Just… let it go. That's the point of a vacation."

"I don't go on vacations."

"Now you do. Come on, let's get to the hotel. The crowds are supposed to get worse in late afternoon."

* * *

It's the heat that wakes him, heavy and pressing, a glutinous, smothering substance that seems to lay over him like a blanket. His actual blanket, as he discovers through muzzy examination of his current state, is in a tangle at his side.

Air conditioning must be broken.

Heaving a sigh, John rubs his eyes absentmindedly with the heel of his hand, blinking widely to try and focus in the pressing darkness. After a few disoriented movements, he detects a small pool of light in the corner of the room, liquid and silver. It streams from the window, where a tall silhouette stands, long fingers grasping the edge of the thick, dusty curtain. Sherlock's profile is illuminated by a faint, starry glow, transforming his face into a pale, shadowed carving. Something in John's half-asleep mind connects him with one of the statues they had seen the previous day, some ancient interpretation of a nameless Roman deity.

He's standing up without thinking, trudging across the creaky wooden floor of the two-room apartment they've rented. Before he has time to figure out why he's gotten out of bed in the first place, he's at Sherlock's side, joining him in his silent observation of the glittering city below. Venice really is spectacular at night, a sprawling tapestry of golden lights clustered like fireflies, rich dollops of luminescence reflected in the black waters of canals, which ripple mutely, tearing the solid streams into fragmented ribbons of midnight sunshine.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" John whispers, the faint rasp of his voice barely disturbing the air.

Sherlock rumbles deep in his throat, a wordless, neutral sound. John finds himself gazing at his companions' face, the glowing reflections in his wide irises, the perfect stillness of his lips and eyelashes. Something about him is unshakably beautiful, carrying with it the softly romantic atmosphere of an Italian portrait.

Something inside John twinges, and suddenly he can't _stop _looking.

The brunette's eyebrows draw down slightly, and he finally pulls away from the window to look at John. "Why are you staring?" he questions suspiciously.

Heat teases at John's cheeks, born from the awareness that there's no proper answer. He quickly glances towards the window again, hoping that the small shrug he provides his enough to quell the other's curiosity.

"The view," he comments, swallowing to dispel the sudden dryness in his mouth. "It really is nice."

"Quite." Something ouches his hand suddenly, and he looks down in surprise. There's just enough light for him to discern Sherlock's fingers curling shyly around his own. He hesitates for a second, then squeezes back gently, something unidentifiable shooting through his stomach at the tiny gesture.

"It's better now." Sherlock's voice is a mere breath, barely touching John's ears. The doctor doesn't reply verbally, sufficing to exhale slightly and move in just a tiny bit closer, watching the lights.


	22. Mother Nature

**A/N** _Sorry for the slight delay, but here we are. __  
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**Thanks to** _Fayet, ThisDayWillPass, johnsarmylady, and muffinlover18__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXII. Mother Nature

Nature has never served much purpose, from Sherlock's point of view. The most significant thing it does is alter the layout of a crime scene, corrupt it with rain and mud and whatnot. Some people may grow sentimental when presented with a particularly attractive arrangement of wildflowers, or a nice-smelling forest glen, but he prides himself in not being one of them. Such a fondness, after all, can only restrain more important energies. Bothersome at best, and the world's only consulting detective doesn't have time for bothersome.

Of course, his constant companion does.

John walks a couple of times a week—just walks, in one of the grey-green parks sprinkled across the black urbanization of London. He dubs them 'calming,' 'healthy,' and refuses to listen when Sherlock points out how the flat expanses of half-dead grass and cold benches are more or less the perfect opposite of _natural. _He finds some sort of peace in these small ventures, and, as interfering as Sherlock finds his sometimes impulsive departures, they still keep his mind fresh and his attitude even. Sherlock himself, on the other hand, fully prefers to stay in the flat, not polluting his mind with data such as the weather or the eating habits of the other walkers in the park. The darkened rooms of 221b are a much more suitable habitat for his thoughts to thrive.

"Come with me."

He initially does a double take, glancing up from the microscope slide he's polishing, wondering if John could be talking to himself. His voice is certainly quiet enough for such, but it's an uncommon habit for the doctor, and he's staring straight at Sherlock, as the latter now notes.

"Come with you? Why?" he questions, brow furrowing in puzzlement.

"It'll be good for you. You've been cooped up in here for days; fresh air would be nice, don't you think?"

"Hardly."

John sighs. "Then will you do it for me? To keep me company? I don't feel like going alone today."

Sherlock returns to his microscope slide, rubbing impatiently at an oily spot on the clear strip of glass. This is hardly an important enough issue to require eye contact. "Get one of your girlfriends to go with you, if you need a companion so badly. I'm sure they'd be all too willing."

"I'm asking _you,_ Sherlock."

John's words—even, measured—are surprisingly effective. Sherlock's gaze drifts up again, meeting that of his flatmate. "How long will it take?"

"Quarter hour, if you'd like. Just enough time to clear your lungs out. It's not like you have anything on, after all. Come on, just this once. You'll like it."

"Doubtful," Sherlock mutters, but he's standing up anyways, for some reason he can't quite target—setting down the slide, pushing in his chair. He doesn't want to be doing this, not in the least. His actions cause John's eyes to brighten, though, ever so slightly, and something about that encourages him to go on. He makes to reach out for his coat, then hears a small note of objection from behind him, an unfinished word.

"What?"

"It's just… you don't need the coat, do you? Not really… it's spring, it's warm outside—"

"Has that ever stopped me before?"

He raises a hand in defeat, sighing. "Forget it. Okay? Just forget it. I'm perfectly fine with walking through a park accompanied by someone dressed like a vampire."

"I should hope so. Otherwise, it was a mistake to invite me to come with you," Sherlock growls delicately, ignoring the childish analogy.

"Like I said. Forget it."

He meets John's eyes for a single, level moment, frowning. It's things like this about people that he can never understand. "Why should I forget it? You just said that—"

"I just said that it doesn't matter, alright? Far from a big deal."

He nods, slowly. "Do you still want me to come?"

"…That would be nice, yes."

"Fine." He lets his hand drop slowly, fingers trailing along the fabric of his coat but not gripping it, leaving it to hand. A furtive glance is shot at his scarf, but nothing beyond that. "Let's go."


	23. Cat

**A/N** _Again, I missed a day or two, apologies. __  
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**Thanks to** _No reviewers this time~__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXIII. Cat

"What," Sherlock growls, one hand on the doorknob and the other poised to remove his scarf, "is _that?_"

"It's called a kitten," John replies calmly, shifting the position of the small, ginger-furred creature in his lap. Its miniscule, pearly white teeth are bared in a tiny yawn before it rearranges itself, tucking its chin neatly onto its front paws.

"You never set we were babysitting a cat," the detective spits in response. He stays in his frozen stance, eyes flickering rapidly between John's almost-smug face and the fluffy form of the kitten.

"And who told you it was a babysitting job?"

Scoffing as if such a thing should be obvious to even John, Sherlock finally begins to move, stripping off his coat and moving quickly to his chair, where he sits twitchily, eyeing the kitten suspiciously as he begins to cross and uncross his legs in an almost spasmodic manner. "You should bring it back. Those things are insufferable."

"Oh, you're quite one to talk about insufferableness," John shoots back. His forefinger navigates the smooth bit of fur between the sleeping kitten's ears, scratching fondly. He can hardly resist the appeal—in fact, he's half-wishing that this wasn't the neighbor's cat, that they could actually have one for themselves. Of course, Sherlock is hardly reacting well to this little scrap.

"Regardless, that thing is useless and messy."

"Everything is useless and messy to you," he sighs. "It's staying with us for two days. I'm sure you can survive that long."

"Not everything," Sherlock objects quietly. He keeps his eyes glued to the cat, as if holding it in place with his stare. "Just…" His voice cuts off suddenly, and he freezes in place, his knuckles straining from their hard grip on the arms of his chair.

John leans forward in concern, still making sure not to disrupt the tiny animal cradles on his legs. "Hey—give it a rest. You're getting overly worked up, okay? Calm down."

"I'll calm down once you get that abysmal creature out of our flat," is the snarled response.

"Alright, that's enough of that." John stands up, holding the kitten to his chest. It lets out a high-pitched whine of protest, and he strokes it repeatedly in an attempt to calm it down. Sherlock recoils as he approaches, flattening himself against the back of his chair and twisting his face in a revolted expression.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Jesus, give it a rest. Here." Slowly, gradually, he transfers the cat into Sherlock's lap, letting his fingers linger on its soft flank. Sherlock is ridiculously stiff, as though even beginning to relax would be a catastrophic action. The kitten, however, is unperturbed—in fact, it rolls onto its back like a tiny dog, displaying an expanse of snowy white belly fur.

"Now try petting it," John instructs.

"_No,_" Sherlock hisses. "No bloody way."

"Don't be so childish," the doctor chides, and he finds himself reaching out, his hand settling over Sherlock's. A small smile plays around his lips as he forces the detective's fingers to move to the cat's stomach, pressing them into the soft fur and holding them there.

"See? Not so bad."

Sherlock doesn't respond, but his eyes do look a bit less icy.


	24. No Time

**A/N** _WOW, I'm really good at forgetting to post. I'm sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Also, WE'VE REACHED FIFTY REVIEWS! WHOO! CONFETTI! __  
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**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, Call me Mad, Lover of Emotions, Sendai, and ThisDayWillPass__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXIV. No Time

"Don't let them take you."

John's voice is pleading, his eyes wide with fevered desperation as his gaze whips up and down the dank alleyway. His hands are hot on Sherlock's shoulders, racing pulse somehow managing to reach his very fingertips. The criminals they've been tracking for over a week now will be appearing at any moment, ready to take Sherlock to their base.

"John—stop, look at me, _listen,_" he demands, his voice cold and quick. He waits until the other man meets his eyes before continuing. "We agreed on this earlier, we won't give them a chance to hurt me… Lestrade and the next are positioned, they're ready to follow. Remember that we're trapping them, not the other way around—John. _John._"

But the doctor is shaking his head frantically, back and forth, not accepting Sherlock's words. His impulsive, frantic grip on the detective's shoulders tightens impossibly, crossing the line from firm to painful. "Something could go wrong… the police could lose track of you, or not arrive on time… how do you think I feel about risking you like this? Don't you remember the bodies? I don't want—I can't stand to imagine that happening to you, Sherlock!"

He does remember the bodies, of course he does—unfortunate victims of this alarmingly violent gang of serial killers. Distorted, disemboweled, bled out and sliced to bits—

"That's not going to happen to me… calm down Breathe." He takes ahold of John's upper arm, fingers brushing the cold, damp stone of the wall they're backed up against. "You know I'm too clever to let that happen. We won't even let them get close. Now stop shaking. They don't expect you to be here, only me, so you'll get a chance to run. Are you listening?"

"Let them take me instead. Please. It will be so much easier… _please, _Sherlock."

"I couldn't do that," he scoffs in response, because the very concept is ridiculous—John isn't disposable. A thin smirk materializes on his pale lips, and a hint of amusement creeps into his voice. "I'd be lost without my blogger, remember?"

John's response, however, is dead serious.

"You think I wouldn't be lost without you?"

The air seems to crystallize. Something heavy and powerful is shifting in Sherlock's chest, and it's robbing him of his energy, leaving him exposed, confused, not ready for the quick thinking he'll have to pick up when the killers get here, which is surely only seconds away now. He gives a quick, sharp shake of his head, taking a deep breath, trying to kick-start his brain. "Stop it. I'm not going to die."

"Sherlock—"

John's hand moves to his neck, pulling him in closer. He can feel the doctor's fast-coming breath on his lips and cheeks, see nothing but those wide, terrified eyes. Their chests are brushing together, his heart is hammering against his ribcage and tears are gleaming along John's lashes—

A rough, fierce hand curls around Sherlock's collar, yanking him backwards. He stumbles, slipping on the wet brick ground, and by the time his vision rights itself again, there's the thin prick of a knife teasing his windpipe. John is frozen against the wall, his expression confused and blank.

"_Run!_" Sherlock snarls, forcing himself not to struggle against the wide, muscular arms of the murderer restraining him.

Their eyes remain locked for a brief yet eternal instant, then John runs.


	25. Trouble Lurking

**A/N** _Entertainingly enough, this actually feels more like Morlock than Johnlock, but, well, whichever. __  
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**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, MapleleafCameo, and LittleMisChevious__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXV. Trouble Lurking

John is afraid of Moriarty.

And he's not an easy man to scare, either. He's been through a hell of a lot of pain and death, been shot at and threatened and held captive countless times more than most men his age. Loose, unfocused fear of 'the enemy' as a whole was overcome years ago, during his time as a soldier, back in Afghanistan. He'd been forced to face the concept of his own mortality at a much closer range than preferable, and he'd thought at that point that if he managed to survive his impending death, nothing would ever again feel like a real threat in comparison.

But James Moriarty does feel like a threat. A very burning, real, steadily approaching threat that's constantly on his mind, darkening his thoughts, making them bitter, poisoned. His very name is a repulsive mess, to be avoided at all times, shoved to the back of John's mind so that he can at least sleep at night.

He can't quite figure out why the psychopath as an individual is so terrifying. Perhaps it's his self-established changeability, the fact that he can flip from a seemingly innocent young man to a cold-blooded killer in the space of a millisecond, or otherwise the simple _expanse _of his wrongdoing, just how many people he's murdered, just how many lives he's torn apart. A single, dark, powerful creature at the center of a hurricane of blood and tears, the cruelest side of a mythological trickster, a weaver of chaos, all the threads and strands of his spectacularly ingenious plans braided into a single pink-and-white pill, a splash of toxic lemon spray paint, the subtle ripple of a nighttime swimming pool. As stated by Jeff Hope on the very first night of John and Sherlock's association, Moriarty is much more than a man. He's a force of nature, a wild energy, and energy can never be destroyed, only dispersed and converted. A terrifying prospect by any definition, and John often wonders how he can stay sane, knowing that such a maniac exists in the world—exists in London, with his oil-black eyes permanently fixated on the door of 221b Baker Street.

And yet he doesn't just cope with the ceaseless danger. He seeks it out, savors it, because it's what keeps him alive. Not only the smoldering force of Moriarty, but equally that which constantly clashes against it, keeping it at nothing more than a menacing simmer.

Sherlock holds Moriarty at bay, and it's a stunning thing to watch.

Because these men work with their minds, triple-crossing, triple-bluffing, incorporating a thousand subtleties into every move they make. Their actions are like those of gods, worlds' worth of brainpower condensed into the dark-haired heads of two silent, pale men, a hundred conflicts playing back and forth within the folds of the largest one, the great game, the war waged under cover of shadow and betrayal. It's so much more finely crafted than the mindless, bloody battle that John remembers all too vividly, less conspicuous but infinitely more remarkable for that reason. The chemistry spun out between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes is a work of art, and one which John Watson finds himself endlessly dazzled by.

John knows that he'll never be one of the game's central players. But he still believes he has a role in it, and one that he wouldn't give up for the world.


	26. Tears

**A/N** _Lalalala...__  
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**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, maggiemacjack, and Natalie Nallareet__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

XXVI. Tears

Sherlock doesn't cry. That much is a given, really, considering who he is as a whole. Emotion is a separate world form the consulting detective, one to be observed but never experienced. That's what he always tells himself, in any case, and the evidence to back up such a claim is always glaringly obvious. After all, he's given an opportunity to be upset often enough, what with all the shaken, horrified people that he finds himself having to question for various reasons. They're usually crying—sometimes in a steady way, sometimes in a hysterical one. He doesn't care. He has no reason to.

When John cries, it's different.

He isn't suspecting it. He's not even paying attention to his flatmate, being instead focused on his own thoughts, consideration of the case they've just completed. It was a particularly unpleasant one, as they go: the tracking and persecution of a bloody serial killer whose preferred prey happened to be young girls. Too many children had died over the duration of the case. Sherlock knows that, but he's also willing to let it go, because it's in the past, nothing can change it at this point.

The steady stream of his mind is interrupted by a muffled whimper. His eyes snap open, wider than their previous half-lidded state, and he frowns slightly. John is sitting at the table in the center of the room, laptop open, but he's not typing. Instead, he has his elbows braced on the table's cluttered surface and his forehead supported by his hands, back and shoulders shaking with steady, silent tremors.

"John?" Sherlock asks in puzzlement.

The doctor doesn't respond, and Sherlock rises from the couch, pacing over to John's side and watching him curiously. "Are you… alright?"

"Do I _look _alright, Sherlock?" John demands suddenly, looking up. His eyes are reddish around the edges, and shining with tears that stick to his lashes. None have been shed, but it's still clear that he's trying to hold himself back from sobbing.

"You're upset." Sherlock states the fact in a calm, detached tone, but his insides are consumed by a shockingly violent turmoil, squirming and writing. It's… _upsetting _to see John like this, disconcerting and frustrating because there probably isn't a single thing he can do about it.

"Of course I'm upset, you complete _idiot! _Those girls—those _children, _they were _slaughtered! _Don't tell me that you're completely unaffected by that. Don't you_ dare._"

Sherlock bites back the truth: that John crying is a much more distressing sight than the mutilated bodies that are on his mind. Instead, he keeps talking, even knowing that his words can't possibly do any good.

"They're gone, John… there's no use crying over them, you know that. There are more productive ways to spend your life than mourning the dead."

"You think I give a _shit _about being productive right now?" John snarls, and a stray tear escapes his eye, slips down his cheek, leaving a shimmering trail behind.

"…No," Sherlock finally admits with a low sigh.

"Good. Now leave me the hell alone."

"Will that help you feel better?"

"Cut the sarcasm and _leave me alone._"

He clearly has no idea how little sarcasm the statement involves. Sherlock nods anyways, leaving the room for good measure and closing the door silently behind him.


	27. Foreign

**A/N** _I should win some sort of award for missing so many days in a row. To my credit, I was sick, and recovering from both the Doctor Who finale and the Supernatural premiere. I HAVE EXCUSES. __  
_

**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, 265, Guest, johnsarmylady, 3star_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXVII. Foreign

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock looks up quickly from the suitcase that he's been piling clothes into. Straightening as soon as he catches sight of John, he places his hands on his hips and scowls, his eyebrows and lips tilting down as though weighted by irritation. "What does it look like?" he snaps, his voice thickly exasperated. John shrugs, shying away from the moodier-than-usual detective.

"Alright, no need to get defensive," he murmurs. "I was just curious. Planning on traveling somewhere?"

"Japan," the other confirms, returning to his task.

"_Japan?_" John repeats incredulously, eyes following Sherlock's slender hands as they swiftly bundle together a pair of socks. "That's… a bit sudden, isn't it? Do you have a case?"

"Obviously. A particularly baffling string of murders that have the local and national authorities at a loss. Mycroft knows one of the officials, informed him that, if he paid all the expenses, I would take a _look._" The last word is snarled, and he flings shut the top of the suitcase, zipping it in a series of quick, rough motions.

"Why did you take it? You obviously aren't interested." John crosses his arms and leans comfortably against the wall, head lolling slightly as he takes in Sherlock's unusually distressed appearance: dark hair even more matted and unruly than usual, charcoal-hued crescents underlying wide and bloodshot eyes, lips and neck stiff with frustration.

"I'm not being given a damn _choice,_" Sherlock spits. "My _brother _kindly arranged it with Lestrade that I won't be given any more cases in London until I agree to go along with this one. He's holding my work hostage," he finishes, an almost childishly whining undertone layering his low, strained voice.

John is tempted to laugh at the melodramatic metaphor, but he instead pulls together a straight face, sufficing to raise his eyebrows. "Well, it could be worse. I hear Japan is awfully nice this time of year."

"It's a tedious waste of energy," Sherlock objects belligerently. "There's too much involved. Jet lag, flight times, exchange rates, foreign housing… damn it."

"Well…" John bites at the edge of his lip, carefully considering his next words. He certainly doesn't want to make any promises that he can't necessarily keep, but at the same time, it twists his stomach to see his flatmate in a state of such utter unhappiness. "I could come with you, if you wanted… there's overemployment at work right now, in any case. I'd probably be taking the time off even without this."

Sherlock looks genuinely surprised, his face frozen in an expression of confusion. "Really?" he finally asks.

The innocent hopefulness in his tone brings an unwilling grin to John's face, and he turns to leave the room, hand lingering on the warm wood of the doorframe. "I'll go pack."


	28. Sorrow

**A/N** _It's been a little too long since post-Reichenbach angst, am I right? Well, here you go. _

**Thanks to** _Natalie Nallareet, Fayet, ThisDayWillPass, 3star, and DandyLeonine_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXVIII. Sorrow

_I'm sorry._

The words pound themselves into Sherlock's skull, repeating over and over, a torturous mantra that burns more than any heat, burns with pure icy cold, furious, bitter cold that grips his chest and snakes into his throat, freezes the tear ducts that he can barely remember the existence of sometimes, creates an ache deep in his head and his heart, a pain that he wouldn't ever imagine himself capable of feeling.

_I'm so, so sorry. _

He isn't sorry, of course. It's an absolute lie, because he would never take back his actions on the rooftop, not for anything. He did it to save John, and, even though the doctor himself would undoubtedly hate him for thinking such a thing, the life of his flatmate is infinitely more essential than his happiness. It's a selfish thought, but Sherlock is a selfish man, and he knows that now, knows it clearer than anything. It stabs him every time he catches a glimpse of John, on the CCTV screens tucked around Mycroft's house—of John crying, John's voice cracking when he talks, John sitting alone in the flat and staring into space, just _staring… _those moments are the worst, the _staring _moments, because they seem like they'll never stop. Sherlock will freeze, every scrap of his attention consumed by the nothingness playing out before him. The tension in John's neck and forehead, the _deadness _of the hazel-blue eyes that are usually filled with such vivid life… it was a full fifteen minutes, once, before the army doctor finally heaved a sigh and stood up, walking away, out of view of the camera. And every second of those fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, because Sherlock was _screaming—_not aloud, never aloud, but in his mind, over and over, begging John to hear him.

_I'm here, John. I'm here and I'm thinking about you and I've never stopped. And I know that I'm on your mind, it's obvious, it's so blindingly obvious, because nothing else could make you look so destroyed… we're thinking about each other, isn't that enough? Isn't that enough to know?_

But John didn't know. He doesn't know, and that's Sherlock's fault, Sherlock's decision. Mycroft's made the offer several times—_if you want to talk to him, it could be arranged—_but he's denied it every time, and he's still figuring out why. He wants to see John again, God knows he wants to. But he's not ready. Not ready because Moran isn't dead yet, because he still isn't ready to believe that Moriarty himself is ended.

But, beyond that, because Sherlock isn't entirely sure that he wants to return at all.

There's no reason, after all, to believe that John would want him back.

Because he destroyed John. He tormented him, and he's aware of it, despite himself, he doesn't regret it. He knows he made the right choice as clearly as he knows that the man he loves more than anything else in the world will think the opposite. And he can't risk that anger.

He'd rather see John tortured than let John hate him.

_Selfish bastard. _


	29. Happiness

**A/N** _Here's an extremely short one, and pretty vague, too. I am, once more, trying my best to resume daily updates!_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, wrytingtyme, maggiemacjack, MapleleafCameo, 265, ThisDayWillPass_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXIX. Happiness

Happiness is a delicate thing. John has always known that, but he's also constantly had it in his mind that one is fully aware of the sensation when it does come across them. The thought of not being conscious of one's own happiness is practically incomprehensible to him. Because he feels it, every time he smiles, feels the joyous twist in his stomach and has the simple, genuine words cross his mind: _I'm happy right now. _A childish sentence, but all the more genuine for being such.

It's because he hasn't always had this. His childhood wasn't particularly difficult—rather pleasant, even—but undeniably mundane. He wasn't particularly liked in school, just had his own small, select group of friends, began picking up a girlfriend here and there by the mid teenage years. But the army was always in his future, looming, obscuring, through his young adult existence until he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.

And it was those months in the military, in the hot, grungy hell of Afghanistan, that really put him in his place, taught him to appreciate happiness when it came by him. So he started to, and he does now, he thanks it unreasonably every time it falls across him. It's almost exhausting, though, to be constantly aware of the sensation, because it divorces itself from his normal life that way—on an average day, at any given time, John Watson is not happy. It only shows himself in rare moments, the brightest moments.

That's what he thinks, in any case.

But other people see it. Just glimpses, shining through, gleaming in his eyes, shining in his smiles.

When Sherlock Holmes is around, John forgets that he has to be conscious of his happiness.

It just slinks in.


	30. Under the Rain

**A/N** _Aaand, even more post-Reichenbach angst. Or, well, post-post-Reichenbach angst. It never stops being fun ;3__  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXX. Under the Rain

The rain starts out light, as a wispy spray that flecks the sidewalk with bits of wetness, standing out against the expanse of pale grey cement. Even Sherlock can appreciate the washed-out, refreshing scent that fills the air: clean, moist, and carrying hints of springtime in its misted coolness. An invisible layer of water condenses on his face, and he wipes it away impatiently, staining the sleeve of his overcoat and dampening the flop of curls that droops stubbornly into his cold eyes.

Neither he nor John has thought to bring an umbrella, and both suffice to tighten their coats against the increasingly heavy flow of raindrops that threaten them both. The water, pooling on the ground, enters the mass of blood surrounding the murder victim that they're clustered around. The thin, clear liquid merges with the thick, red one, but rather than combining, the two twist around each other, traces of scarlet forming trailing webs of color in the rain puddles.

"I suppose we should call Les-Lestrade…"

Sherlock twitches his gaze up, frowning slightly. John never stutters. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." It's an obvious lie, but the doctor's tight face makes it clear that he wants to avoid such a subject. Sherlock, however, isn't about to allow him that particular desire.

"No, you're not."

"If you have to know…" John lets out a slow, tired sigh. "Last time I saw rain and blood like that… do you realize whose it was?" His eyes suddenly tilt up to meet Sherlock's. They're surprisingly bright, almost daringly so, and the clench of his jaw is unusually stiff. Sherlock's stomach dips with guilt, an emotion that had been foreign to him until the Fall—the Fall, which ripped them apart from one another, only so that they could grow closer than ever upon Sherlock's eventual return.

"Was it bad?" he asks quietly, his voice low and dark. John's eyes flicker around anxiously, but he keeps his own gaze firmly fixed on the doctor.

"Of course it was. Seeing your body lying there… God, sometimes I can't remember how I survived it. I was lost, Sherlock, I…" His voice trails off, and he shakes his head, clearly distraught. "I have no idea that anything could hurt so damn bad."

"I'm sorry."

"You've said that a thousand times, it doesn't mean anything anymore."

It's clear that John wants to change the subject, clear in his tense posture and unsteady eye movements. Sherlock could choose not to acknowledge the obvious signs of nervousness, or he could just shut his mouth, stop being such an insufferably relentless menace.

For some reason, he chooses the latter.

And he stays appropriately silent as John dials up Lestrade, staring blankly at the blood pouring from the corpse's head, just trying to imagine just what he put his flatmate through.

It's impossible, and that terrifies him.


	31. Flowers

**A/N** _I don't even know what this is. __  
_

**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXI. Flowers

_Sentiment _is one of the many words that Sherlock will speak with a curl to his lip, a disgusted dullness in his sharp grey-green eyes as he turns away, scoffing deep in his throat and reaching up with pale fingers to adjust his navy blue scarf. It couldn't be clearer that he considers the emotion a sign of weakness, that anyone to experience the pull of genuine caring is pathetic, useless.

John always tries not to take this to heart, considering that he himself is a person all too prone to emotional affection. He tells himself that surely Sherlock doesn't dismiss him so easily, surely he sees past the screen of the army doctor's emotions and penetrates to the core, to his quick intelligence and loyalty, his courage and his strong morals. He wants to think that the detective doesn't dismiss him as _stupid, _and even with Sherlock's words constantly in his mind—_because you're an idiot—_he tells himself that that's true. That Sherlock appreciates him for who he is, doesn't consider him little more than some sort of pet to keep around and send on errands.

He expects Sherlock to put up with him and his human feelings—put up with him, nothing more. And that's what he gets, typically, not a degree more or less.

But, on occasion, unexpected things crop up. Like today. Today is February 14th, Valentine's Day, and it's the day that John enters the flat only to be practically flattened by what seems to be a solid wall of floral perfume.

He blinks and coughs slightly, eyes watering as the aroma crashes over him in waves. As he looks around, all he really manages to register is _pink—_there are vivid pink flowers everywhere, _roses, _lining seemingly every solid surface in the room, stems cut neatly and placed in scrubbed-out glasses that previously housed a variety of colorful chemistry experiments. The whole damn flat is decked out in the wide, blush-colored blossoms, and John honestly can't keep his jaw shut. He gapes blankly at the setup, and his blatant staring is stopped only by the low purr of Sherlock's voice, coming from the couch.

"What do you think?"

John starts, glances over and barely manages to glimpse the top of a tousled head over the virtual garden situated on the coffee table. Standing up a bit straighter, he gets a better view of Sherlock's face, eyes barely open and mouth curled into a smirk. He looks _pleased _with himself, of all things.

"What the hell is this?" John demands, gesturing vaguely to the spectacular array of flowers.

"A nod towards the holiday that takes place today. Our most recent client piled on money most absurdly, so I decided to be festive."

"Festive," John repeats weakly, choking on the fumes. "Right, excellent. I appreciate the effort. Now get yourself off that sofa and help me get these damn things out of here."

Sherlock chuckles, pulls himself up and meets John's eyes, his gaze deep and cool. "Of course. Happy Valentine's Day, John."


	32. Night

**A/N** _THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT: **I HAVE INDEED CHANGED MY USERNAME. **Is bold caps enough to get your attention? Hopefully. Anyhoo, yes. Thisby Solo is now Riddelly for various reasons. A subtle Doctor Who reference, for those of you in the fandom, and a weird-sounding derpy thing for those who aren't. Anyways, back to the story - I really like this little drabble, actually, so please tell me what you think!__  
_

**Thanks to** _ThisDayWillPass, DandyLeonine, and wrytingtyme_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXII. Night

Sherlock's not sure when exactly they started sharing a bed, but he gets the feeling that it was neither of their individual moves—both had gravitated towards the other simultaneously, so that they met halfway, with the mix of a plea and an invitation that landed them both curled up on Sherlock's mattress, stiff at first, neither approaching the other. It was a _platonic _setup, after all—they were _lonely, _nothing more than that, and just because they were sharing a bed didn't mean they were sleeping together. Certainly not. It was mostly John who wanted to make this fact certain, so he was the one to keep himself closest to the edge of the bed, his horizontal posture tight and uncomfortable.

The first night was indeed a bit awkward, but after that, things gradually begin to flow into an easier situation. A week or so in, neither of them are really trying to keep their distance anymore. Instead, they're several inches closer to each other, and when Sherlock's hand drifts out on top of the covers, John's brushes against it, and neither of them react in any way other than to let out twin sighs, tiny noises of muted happiness.

It's all uphill from there, and eventually they get to the point where they _cuddle _shamelessly. Sherlock knows that John would deny it if he were ever to mention it during the day—they never retain these moments through to morning light. It's as if the John and Sherlock of daylight share an entirely different relationship than the John and Sherlock of nighttime.

Under the sun, they're friends. Close friends, friends who would die for each other, but undeniably _friends, _almost brothers. Everyone knows that, as much as they may tease them otherwise, and they know it most of all themselves. They fight sometimes, but it never lasts more than an afternoon, and by the end they're always all too eager to sit down in front of the telly, with a cup of John's tea and the windows' drapes pulled tight over the dull grey sky.

But under the moon, there's something else there. Perhaps it can't quite be described with words, but it's there—a soft, strong bond that materializes in their closeness, their proximity, arms wrapped around one another and legs tangled together as John presses his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock winds his fingers up in John's hair. They never kiss, only hold each other there, in delicate suspension, each seeking the strength that the other has to offer, and neither ever wanting to be the first to let go.


	33. Expectations

**A/N** _Wow, thanks for all the reviews last chapter! :D__  
_

**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, DandyLeonine, ThisDayWillPass, johnsarmylady, J C Cathrine, 265, Guest, Guest, And I Am Undone_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXIII. Expectations

_"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."_

_"I'm never bored._

_"Good, that's good."_

Mycroft's words, offered as they may have been in casual greeting, come back to John time and time again—every time that a new bullet hole appears in the wallpaper, every time a bubbling chemical experiment melts or burns another spot on the kitchen counter, every time that a stray limb falls out of the fridge when John opens it to check the milk supply. _Never bored, _that's for damn sure, but at the same time, he can't help but think that the elder Holmes was rather correct in his first assessment. _Hellish. _John's constantly on his toes, making sure that he doesn't irritate Sherlock even as the latter torments him to no end, aloof and crabby and impossible to understand as he is.

When Mike Stamford offered John a flat share, he wasn't expecting this. Perhaps he had envisioned a slightly younger man that he'd be living with, bright-eyed and excited for his life in London, with a mundane job—store clerk, valet, something like that—and a constant chain of girlfriends that kept him occupied, allowed him to stay appropriately distanced from John.

Instead, he received a thirty-five-year-old, self-proclaimed sociopath, the world's only consulting detective and Scotland Yard's greatest pest, a genius and an insensitive asshole and an utterly unique, intriguing, fascinating man who John would never imagine being able to complete so perfectly.

He does complete him, though—they complete each other, and even with the occasional fights and spats, with the inherent messiness of the flat and the exhaustion of the full-time job that John has somehow become part of, it's all worthwhile. Living with Sherlock Holmes is an adventure in and of itself, an adventure that John knows he wouldn't trade for the world.

And that was the cause of his words to Mycroft—_I'm never bored—_because, even if his lifestyle is by all definition _hellish _(dirty, tiring, sometimes tedious and always strenuous, mentally and on occasion physically), he can't deny that it's perfect for him. It's not something that he'd even think he'd want, but he knows now that he _does _want it, he wants it more than anything else, wants this occupation, this home, this landlady, this flatmate.

_This flatmate, _because Sherlock is the heart of it all. If John himself was the consulting detective, with no assistant—if he had 221b and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, it still wouldn't be the same. Sherlock's at the center of it all, he binds them all together, and he's really what John needs and lives for more than anything else. His esoteric mind, his beautiful eyes, his haunting violin melodies and his quick-spoken deductions—they all wind together, forming the utter essence of _Sherlock, _and that essence, above all else, is what perfects things.

_I'm never bored, _he told Mycroft, quietly and honestly.

John's never bored because he has Sherlock, and he'd never want anyone else.


	34. Stars

**A/N** _Tralalala~__  
_

**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, ThisDayWillPass_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXIV. Stars

"They really are beautiful."

Sherlock's voice is wondering, and it reflects his emotions—absolute amazement at the words coming out of his own mouth, and more so their complete validity. It's true—the stars splayed across the night sky are, by all definition, gorgeous. They spill across the silken black expanse like a silver veil, thick in some places and sparse and others, glittering coldly and distantly and playing out hundreds of constellations, all of which Sherlock can observe but none of which he can identify.

"Even more so when you realize what they are," John agrees softly from beside him. His quiet voice doesn't disturb the celestial perfection, but rather adds to it, somehow renders it even more enjoyable. "_Suns—_loads of them have got planets revolving around them, planets like this, and they're so far away… chances are that some of those planets have life on them at least as developed as us…"

"Don't mix up reality and fiction," Sherlock growls softly, but, though he doesn't say it, he himself is rather taken in by the thought. _Life, at least as developed as us. _Civilizations, perhaps, legions of intelligent beings, just waiting to be discovered… not that they will be, in his lifetime or any nearby one, but perhaps someday. It's odd—he's not used to appreciating things in the abstract, but doing so is calming somehow, refreshes his mind like a spritz of cool water. Appreciating things solely for their beauty… he's unfamiliar with it, but he _likes _it, it really does feel good.

And it's all John's fault, too. John's fault for dragging him outside of the flat tonight, insisting _It's a clear night, the stars are out—just trust me on this. _The street is silent now, the air crisp but not quite icy, just barely misting up where Sherlock's breath touches it. John didn't give him time to so much as pull on his coat, meaning that the chill soaks easily through the thin arms of his white shirt, causing goosebumps to rise up on his pale skin. He doesn't mind, though—he's too consumed by the stars, which seem to hum with a special sort of silence, deep and almost _sacred _somehow. In this moment, he can understand people and their stupid belief in magic, in love—two things equally foreign to Sherlock Holmes, but two things that seem utterly accessible right now, bathed in the cold of the winter and the glow of the stars.

"Thank you," he says softly, after a few more seconds of speechlessness. "For bringing me out here… it… it's gorgeous."

"You don't sound like yourself," John murmurs in an almost humorous way, looking up towards him. Sherlock doesn't turn to meet his gaze, even though he feels it—he's too busy drinking in the starlight.

"I don't feel like myself," he replies honestly.

"Mm… I like you this way," John whispers, brushing up against his shoulders, and Sherlock smiles, a tiny gesture that renders his face just as lovely as the skies.


	35. Hold My Hand

**A/N** _And this is the first one that confirms a most definite 100% romantic relationship between them. In other words, well, snogging. REJOICE. Also, we're almost to a hundred reviews, odfmhgjsyrtgtshytsrd. Thank you all so, so, SO much. I never imagined that this collection would get that far, but we've almost reached it and we're only a third of the way through!__  
_

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, Fayet, and ThisDayWillPass _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXV. Hold My Hand

The handcuffs bite into John's hand as Sherlock thuds down on the other side of the fence, their grip tight and painful. He grits his teeth and sidles up as close to the cold metal bars as possible, wincing and dragging the detective back in his direction. "_Sherlock!_" he hisses, rolling his shoulder to assuage the ache forming in it as he reaches through the fence, grips Sherlock by the front of his coat and pulls him up as close as possible. The detective stares back, his pale eyes alight with the thrill of the chase and his tousled hair drooping onto his forehead, lips parted with quick inhalations.

John really has no way to justify what he does next—it must be some combination of adrenaline and nerves and just pure _madness, _but he leans in closer, the icy bars of the fence pressing against the sides of his face as he forces his lips against Sherlock's, squeezing his eyes shut, taking in the consulting detective's scent and feeling his mouth in a desperate action, a reminder that they're both in danger now, that both Lestrade and Moriarty are after them and that this is the climax of everything, all they have to rely on at this point is each other.

Sherlock's pale hand snakes through the metal barrier between them, his fingers clenching around John's shoulder and pulling him in yet more, so that they're incredibly close but still separated by that damn fence. And John's stomach is leaping in a thousand directions at once as his hand moves from Sherlock's collar to the side of his face, fingertips running along the smooth skin and the silky hair. Their hands joined by the metal cuffs wind into one another, gripping each other's wrists painfully tight as they hold each other close, frantically, hungrily.

It's obvious that Sherlock has no idea what he's doing, clear in the clumsy movements of his lips and the uneasy stiffness of his body, but John doesn't care, because it's still _Sherlock _and that's what makes this perfect.

It's the sirens sounding through the usual hum of late-night London traffic that cause him to finally tear away, gasping for breath, his free hand dropping to his side and his eyes flinging themselves open, wide and sharp. They're still being chased, and they don't have time for this, for this ridiculous, impulsive holdup.

He locks eyes with Sherlock, stares at him, dares him to speak a word about their shared action. But he doesn't speak a word, only gazes back stonily, until John finally nods, taking a final deep breath and glancing up towards their joined hands.

"We're going to have to coordinate," he tells Sherlock in an almost stern manner, but he's smiling, he knows he's smiling. Smiling because they both must be crazy, but he doesn't care, because the city is dark and crime is afoot and they're Sherlock and John, and he knows now more than ever that nothing will come between them, not in a million years.


	36. Precious Treasure

**A/N** _WE TOPPED A HUNDRED REVIEWS. Oh. My. God. I actually can't believe this. Thank you all so, so much, I'm more grateful than I can possibly express. __  
_

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, 265, LittleMisChevious, Hummingbird1759, 3star_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXVI. Precious Treasure

Sherlock's coached himself over the course of his years never to grow attached to anything, at least not in a sentimental fashion, and Mycroft's been all too easy to help him along the way. There are other people in his life, of course—Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper—who have tried to convince him that emotion can be _good, _but he's always ignored them, convinced that they _must _be wrong, that being too protective, too caring of another person or thing can only cause pain.

When John Watson comes along, his mind starts to work differently.

And he knows that it's happening, can feel it in the thrum of his heart, in the hazy cloud that begins to pass over his mind when John's put in danger. The former army doctor, the short blonde man with the psychosomatic limp and the constant accompaniment of his precautionary gun, has somehow stolen everything that Sherlock has built around him, knocked down his barriers and taken his very heart, wound any protective instincts that Sherlock ever possessed around him, so that the detective is left with one weakness, one massive, horrid weakness that he knows he'll never manage to rid himself of.

He'll do anything for John—not in a mundane sense; he'll put up with whatever nonsense the doctor complains about on a day-to-day basis. It's none of his concern. But when it gets to John's actual _safety, _his well-being and his innermost reserves of happiness—God, it's like iron chains are woven around Sherlock's heart, pulling him to fight, to defend, to do anything at all for his John, his blogger, his soldier.

At first, it only shows up in the times when it affects his physical actions. When John's kidnapped by the Black Lotus… Sherlock can feel the steely bitter taste in his mouth as the toxic yellow spray paint assaults his eyes, his stomach dropping and his mind going utterly _blank _for a moment because John is gone, he's gone and Sherlock needs to get him back and that's all that matters in the world. Or at the pool—seeing that heavy, explosive-laden parka draped over his shoulders is like a knife stab to the gut, and all he can do is scramble for control of his mind, try to maintain his usual cool air while everything inside him screams to run to John, to just rip the awful damned thing off of him and pull him close and never, never let him go.

But over time, the attachment, the caring, the _sentiment _starts to show in other places, day-to-day matters, not only revealing itself in incidents of desperation. It's always there, throbbing a bit sweeter whenever they're endangered, but constantly present all the same. Every time he looks at John, the ache comes, the little moment of blissful mindlessness, the all-consuming emotion that a wiser man might be able to identify, but which keeps Sherlock Holmes mystified.


	37. Eyes

**A/N** _Angst was needed, yes?__  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, 265, and Guest_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXVII. Eyes

The worst part of seeing Sherlock's broken body on the pavement is, undoubtedly, the emptiness of his eyes.

It's all horrid, of course—enough so to paralyze John's lungs, to overturn his very world and leave him clambering desperately for something to hold onto. The pale face, the scarlet blood creeping down the pale face in spidery, crack-like streams, the pool of crimson spreading out from his rain-soaked hair, the limpness of his dark coat splayed out around him.

_But his eyes. _

His eyes are paler than they were even in life, a light, crystalline grey-green tinged with tiny hints of frosty blue, and torturously _empty, _blank. Staring, but not at John, not at anyone, because there's _no one in there, _no one looking out of them, and John wants nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and _scream, _shake him until the life pours back into him—Jesus Christ, he can't be gone, it's impossible that he's _gone, _it only just happened, so surely he can be retrieved, brought back by some means, whether they be physical or spiritual, mental or godly—there's nothing in John's mind save a burning red fog, a wordless _screaming _that he needs Sherlock back, _needs _him back so that he can think again, breathe again.

It would be so much easier if only his eyes were closed, because then he could be unconscious, knocked out from the fall, but this is infinitely worse, because they're open and there's _nothing _in them, that cunning, intelligent light is gone, can never in a thousand—a million—_any _number of years be dragged back. It's proof, leaving John with nowhere to run, nowhere else to dash to, a pulse to feel or breath to check. He tries for the former anyways, clinging desperately to the hope that maybe he's wrong, maybe all his years of medical experience have still managed to not cover everything, maybe there's a possibility that he's still alive…

"Jesus, no… oh, God, no."

There are hands pulling him away, and he hardly feels it, he's so consumed by buzzing numbness. Sherlock's arm is still warm, horribly warm, carrying with it traces of life, and John wants desperately for there to be a way for him to scrape them together, those little fragments, to create some semblance of a whole…

_Sherlock, no, please don't do this to me. Please. You wouldn't… I know you wouldn't do this, this is even beyond you, don't leave me, you can't leave me. _

But he has left him, he already has, _he did it willingly, _he threw himself off that damned roof perfectly aware of where that was going to land him—right here, in front of John, his life shattered, collapsed into invisible, glassy fragments that can never be pieced back together.

It's too late. There's no way out.

Sherlock's eyes are empty. They'll never see John again.

_He's alone. _


	38. Abandoned

**A/N** _Reading over this again, I realize how seemingly irrelevant the title seems to the actual content of the drabble. Trust me, it makes sense in my mind...__  
_

**Thanks to** _Potterabbeylockd, johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, and Guest_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXVIII. Abandoned

Of course, there are always the cases that he doesn't succeed in solving. They're rare, naturally, but certainly not nonexistent, and Sherlock's not necessarily afraid to admit it. As a matter of fact, he's almost delighted by them, because they tell him that he's not truly on top of everything, not yet—that there's more to come, farther to progress, that it's not quite time to slump permanently into his chair and dub himself _bored _beyond rescue.

No, the best part of the chase can sometimes be the failure, and even if frustration blinds Sherlock to such a fact early on, he grows to understand it as he matures. John helps with that, too—reminds him that his ratio of getting the answer right will always be higher than the majority of others', and that the tiny, inconsistent flaws in his deductions and solutions are just what make him human. Because Sherlock doesn't play to win—he plays to _play, _a challenge reflected in the glassy surface of the pink-and-white pill that nearly killed him on the day his life changed.

_But this, this is what you're really addicted to. _

_Come on… play the game. _

Play the game he does, and he'll continue to indefinitely, until he's rendered physically unable—physically, because his mental facilities will never dull, not in a hundred years and more. He'll only ever get farther along, building up his brain's index and cataloguing every bit of information that crosses paths with him, until he's built himself up to a flawless creature, invincible.

The day that Sherlock can solve every puzzle he's presented with—that will be the day when he can lie back with the knowledge that his life is complete.

But that day is far from arriving, and it's that fact that keeps him running, keeps him thinking, keeps him shooting and breathing and _living. _He's always working towards the higher goal, the paramount mystery—which might be Moriarty, the man calling himself Sherlock's arch-nemesis, or perhaps something else entirely, a question yet to be unveiled. He lives in anticipation of that final, overarching conundrum, the one that will hopefully cause him hours and hours of frustrated indecision as well as endless steady work, moving towards the great solution.

And it's the little shortcomings that convince him he's moving in that direction, their increased scarcity as his skills and patience progress. The catches in the sleek fabric of his accomplishments spread out over longer periods of time, until it's incredibly rare that he'll leave a case abandoned. Sometimes, when full months go by and he hasn't lost one single time, he begins to think that perhaps this is it—maybe he's done, maybe the world is done trying to challenge him, maybe there's nothing to work towards anymore and the time for the end, for the final problem, has arrived.

But then something else will arrive, a new mystery with little hope of solution, and Sherlock can't help but grin, because it's not over yet.

The game is still on.


	39. Dreams

**A/N** _Fair warning: this chapter DOES LOOK AT THINGS IN A MORE SEXUAL LIGHT. Ehem. I personally don't see sex as being the core of their relationship, even when it's full-on shippy romance, but I can still see something like this happening. So... yes. There be smutty references ahead. Tread carefully. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, total-animal-lover, and Natalie Nallareet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XXXIX. Dreams

John imagines Sherlock's touch often; much more often, he guesses, than the consulting detective would ever suspect. Even if he grew up never being attracted to men, he can't deny that there's a subtle beauty to the detective, to his high cheekbones and long eyelashes and slender figure, that he can't help but be enraptured by and attracted to. Every time that the dark-haired man's breath comes up short in a moment of revelation, or whenever he lets out one of those animated cries of delighted understanding, John can't help but tense, imagining that voice twisted into new levels, sultry moans and piercing whimpers, weaving themselves into a tapestry of silky lust.

And it's not only the sounds that consume his imagination—no, it's also the taste, for surely Sherlock's lips must carry the flavor of London's smoky air, and perhaps a lighter uppercut of icy mint, a cool sensation that often wafts across the air on his breath, that John can't help but inhale with a bit more enthusiasm than can be considered typical. The very image of himself being able to run his tongue over those soft but strong lips, testing their perfumed taste, is enough to cinch his stomach, increase his heart rate and elevate the tug of his lungs ever so slightly.

All of that, of course, is not to mention the touch—and it's the touch that he dwells on the most, every time that the two of them brush by one another. Sherlock's skin is soft and cool, he knows this already, but he also recognizes the strength in those thin limbs, the lean muscles built into his back and forearms, the feline ferocity gleaming in the detective's intent green-grey eyes. And he knows that Sherlock would be _powerful, _would be more than a match for the ex-army doctor. John likes to be challenged, likes to know that his partner isn't relying on him to be the only source of strength, and perhaps that's what's so attractive about Sherlock: his _independence, _his self-reliance that somehow makes him even more vulnerable, even more in needing of the other half that John so desperately wishes himself to be.

He keeps the dreams in his mind, though, the faint whispers of the detective's deep baritone bent into a wordless moan and the invisible chills arching across his skin at the thought of Sherlock's light fingers dancing across it. His flatmate is ignorant, and there's absolutely no reason that things shouldn't stay that way—after all, John's too wise to act on his desires. He knows what he wants, he knows what Sherlock wants, and he's positive that those are two very different things, a truth that he has no cause to defy. He's happy enough with their relationship how it is. There's no reason to change it, not really.

But that doesn't stop him from dreaming, and dream he does, day in and day out, gripped by desire and pathetic hope that someday he might be able to move beyond fantasy.


	40. Rated

**A/N** _And this one has a bit of established relationship in it. I'm aware, re-reading, that it's a bit difficult to understand- the basic 'plot' here is that Mycroft has recommended Sherlock for international detective work. Whichever 'greater powers' might be involved in this are willing to hire him, but only after administering a controlled test to make sure that he's up to their standards (tying into the title, there). Again, doesn't make the most sense, but there you have it. And I've once more slipped up in my attempted daily updates, sdfghjutesf. I just keep freaking forgetting. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, 265, MapleleafCameo, Hummingbird1759, and Fayet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XL. Rated

"I hate it," Sherlock informs John quietly, his low whisper managing to stay sharp and angry. "There's no reason for them to do something like this. They know perfectly well that I'm able to work through any problem that they set up for me. It's pathetic, really."

"No, Sherlock, _you _know that you're able to work through any problem that they set up for you," John corrects calmly, holding the detective's gaze steadily. "You should be flattered. It's not often that an amateur detective is chosen for such a—"

"_Amateur?_" Sherlock repeats, his lips curling back in a disdainful grimace. "John, please. Do they not trust Mycroft's recommendation? I'm perfectly apt to—"

"This isn't your usual sort of work. This is _international espionage, _don't you get it? This is _dangerous. _They need to give you a test, make sure you're up for it."

"I _am _up for it."

"And you know that," John agrees, his voice laden with seasoned patience, "and I know that, but they don't, and what you have to do is prove them right. They'll set up their little mystery for you, you'll head in and blow all their minds, and then, before you know it—first-class ticket to whatever insane country they've decided you need to go to." There's an odd, bitter edge to his tone, though, and Sherlock draws his eyebrows swiftly together, detecting it immediately.

"You don't want me to succeed. You don't want me to go."

"It could be dangerous," is the mumbled reply, and John's expression turns evasive for the first time as he crosses his arms, staring out the frost-rimmed window of the messy flat. "It's… bigger than anything else we've ever been up against. Bigger than Moriarty, even."

"_We're _not going up against it at all. I am."

"Exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Sherlock," John mutters, "you're the genius here. Why do you think I'd be unhappy about you carting off to some foreign country alone, for some job from the government that they won't even tell you yet? For all I know, it could be… I don't know, you could be infiltrating some sort of terrorist cell."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffs. "They have their spies for that. They wouldn't need me."

"You're better than the spies, though."

"John." Sherlock reaches forward suddenly, lays his hand over John's shoulder in an action that causes the shorter man to look up in surprise, his lips parted and his eyes wide. "I am going to be _fine. _Whatever they've chosen for me to do, I'll be able to get through it perfectly well, rest assured. The tediousness of this test is the only thing upsetting me, and it should be the same for you."

"Maybe I just don't like the thought of you having to go through it all alone," John offers darkly. "Not being able to contact me and all."

"I'll be back before you know it," Sherlock reassures him gently. For good measure, he draws the doctor into him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and pressing a light, dry kiss to his forehead, holding his lips there for a long moment before drawing away. "I'll be fine."

"You'd better be," John shoots back, but there's a light smile teasing at the edges of his lips, and Sherlock can't help but grin back.


	41. Teamwork

**A/N** _So, random thing post-season 2. Tralala.__  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady and Fayet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLI. Teamwork

"You've improved him," Mycroft notes quietly, pouring himself a small, gold-rimmed china cup of creamy brown tea. The high walls of the now-familiar Diogenes Club loom around them, and John shifts uncomfortably in his too-stiff armchair, watching the elder Holmes cautiously. As frequent as these visits have become after Sherlock's return post-Fall—at this point, John finds himself in the Diogenes twice a week at best—he can't deny that he hasn't quite adjusted to the stuffy, eerily silent atmosphere. The whole building carries an undeniable air of professionalism about it, and even if John spent multiple years as a soldier, he's never really grown used to the lack of casualty displayed in residences of the government.

"In what way?" he questions as Mycroft turns around, settling into his own chair and crossing his long legs gracefully.

"You complement him," the slimmer man elaborates, taking a long, thoughtful sip of the tea. "Your warmth to his coldness, your courage to his intelligence… don't get me wrong, I certainly think it holds him up on occasion."

"Yeah, thanks."

His lips curve into a cold smile, and a low laugh comes from his throat. "Overall, though… I didn't expect you two to form the type of… bond that I now see so clearly. You're a _team, _Holmes and Watson, it's… intriguing to watch."

"Is that all you have to say?" John asks warily, curling his fingers around the velvety armrests of his chair. "Because, no offense or anything, but I really think I could be doing more productive things than this…"

"I'd say that you've grown used to my presence, but you never really feared it in the first place, did you? I can still remember that first night, clear as glass… that warehouse… my lovely assistant, what was her name that particular occasion?"

_Anthea, _John thinks, but he says nothing. He's sick of putting up with Mycroft—he's ready to leave, and he makes that as apparent in his posture as possible without being downright rude. When the seconds of silence begin to turn brittle, he finally speaks up again. "I don't understand why you had to pull me all the way across London just to tell me that we make a good team."

"That's not all that I'm telling you," Mycroft retorts, his tone almost entertained. His pale blue eyes gleam, and he drinks again, shallowly and thoughtfully. "What I'm saying, John, is that… I can tell, sometimes, that it's at least crossed your mind to be partners on more levels than one."

John's blood freezes.

"Yes, hitting a little closer to home, aren't we?" He leans forward, his gaze steady and intent, reaching over to set his cup aside. A soft clink rings through the padded air as it settles into its waiting saucer. "Just remember what I said, Dr. Watson… you've improved him. And it's not beyond my belief that you have the capacity to do so even farther."


	42. Standing Still

**A/N** _Some more semi-sexual stuff here~__  
_

**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, DuShuZhi, Natalie Nallareet, and Fayet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLII. Standing Still

To feel John, really _feel _him, is undoubtedly the most beautiful experience of Sherlock's life. He can't bring himself to move, to breathe, just remains standing, his eyes lightly shut and his lips parted as the other man's warm hands move over his neck and shoulders, stroking his cheeks, running his fingers along Sherlock's smooth skin like it's the most delicate, flawless thing in the universe. His sweet touches contain such reverence, condensed whenever he chooses to press their lips together—never an extended gesture, just a light application, a tiny ghosting whisper as he threads his hands through the detective's hair, winding his fingers along the curls, nails lightly dancing along the back of his neck and setting off so many chills that he trembles, choking on his suspended breath.

It hurts to hold himself back, not to simply lunge forward and drag John forward, crush them together with all the strength he possesses, feel the warmth and the thrum of their hearts and the hitching of their lungs…

But he restrains himself, because that pain is gorgeous, and he can't imagine anything better than the feeling of John caressing him so lightly, with an almost anxious cautiousness, as though Sherlock could shatter at the slightest pressure. He's stronger, stronger than John gives him credit for—just because he's unfamiliar with this doesn't mean he isn't positive that it's perfect, that it's exactly what he's always needed and that he's never wanted anything more.

And yet it's only after several minutes that he finally pulls together the courage to extend his own hand, to run his fingers along John's own jaw, savor the shaky exhalation that such an action provokes and let his touch linger as long as possible. God, these moments are so gorgeous—so small and meaningless and wonderful, and words needn't be exchanged between them, because it's more than enough just to revel in each other's touch, know that their connection is deep enough to render verbal communication utterly unnecessary. They understand each other more deeply than that, and all of their thoughts are communicated in these miniscule, precious sweeps of lips and fingers, savoring every centimeter of exposed skin offered, running over it time and time again.

They know that they'd both be content to stay like this, forever, perhaps, but that's not possible, of course it's not—they don't just live in a suspended dimension; there's a world out there, a whole world that needs them.

But that never changes the fact that they know this is the most real thing in the universe, and that what they share together is more important than any trivial matter the rest of the planet has to offer them.


	43. Dying

**A/N** _Aaaaaaaaaand, a character death was needed. Not like he's going to stay dead, because, like I said, these drabbles are basically each a universe unto themselves, but yes. __  
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**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, 1895GoodSir, johnsarmylady, muffinlover18, for-my-fingers, and Natalie Nallareet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLIII. Dying

"Sherlock, it's not going to end like this. Not now. Not after everything. Please."

The words are steady, empty, and they reflect the utterly numb cavity in John's chest, which seems to be widening by the second, because he can feel Sherlock's breaths getting shallower, and he knows it's coming, coming for him all at once, and he can't bear it—_not like this—_sickness, _sickness, _it's so mundane, so horribly mundane, and like this, in a hospital bed, surrounded by steady beeping (growing slower, ever slower) and crisp white sheets… the doctors aren't here, they're not trying to stop it, and John knows that that means. He knows they've given up.

"Sh-sherlock. Please."

There are no tears, just his horribly tight grip on Sherlock's limp hand. The dying man can't hear him at this point, he knows that, but he keeps talking anyways, even as his throat seems to swell up, pressing against the words, trying to hold them in, so that by the time they manage to get out, they're cracked and dry.

"You're strong, you're stronger than this, _hold on…_"

For a moment, just a brief, burning moment, the fingers that he's clinging to clench suddenly, tight but still weak, and his heart and lungs and mind seem to freeze all at once—_Sherlock—_but then a slow sigh comes from his body, from the horrible clear plastic mask encasing the lower half of his face, and he seems to deflate, settling against the pillows as his hand goes entirely limp, a calm, serene expression settling over his deadly pale face as the slow beeps stretch into a single long, endless note, one that instantly springs a headache in John's skull, the worst noise he's ever heard.

"Sherlock," he says again, shaking the hand that he still clutches back and forth. "Sherlock… Sherlock. _Sherlock._"

Then he's reaching his other arm up, cradling the side of Sherlock's face, feeling the still-warm skin, a sick swoop lurching through his stomach at the awful stillness. His fingers move down, past the neck, shoulder, until they're positioned on Sherlock's chest, over the heart, the heart that he'd felt beat next to his so many times.

_A breath, a heartbeat, anything. Please, anything. _

There's nothing.

"Sherlock," he mumbles again in horrible repetition, his lips going numb as something hot blurs his vision, mars his view of that perfect, frozen face. "Sherlock… Sherlock."

He needs to hear his voice again, hear his rare but beautiful laugh, see his eyes. Instead, he gets coldness and emptiness, a sterile hospital room, a swarm of faux-sorrowful nurses approaching and that horrible, endless, monotonous beep.

They're saying something to him, taking ahold of his shoulders and pulling him away, holding him back as they put something over Sherlock's face, something white, something obscuring and unwanted and out-of-place.

John just wants to see him.

Wants to hear him say that everything will be okay.

"Sherlock." 


	44. Two Roads

**A/N** _Wow, I actually really like this one. I'd love to see what you all think!__  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, Natalie Nallareet, and innenlebenaussenwelt (feel absolutely free to share it, I'd be extremely flattered!)_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XLIV. Two Roads

Sometimes, when he looks back, Sherlock can see that it didn't all have to play out this way. That there were other possibilities—countless collections of them, really—and he can't help but wonder amazedly at the fact that he managed to make each little choice, each tiny decision that happened to lead him here, to his life as a consulting detective in 221b Baker Street, assisted by Dr. John Watson.

Mycroft always wanted a different future for him, from the very start. _You're hot-headed, brother. Volatile. Operating under your own lead would be an extremely unwise career decision. _

Sherlock would sneer and scowl at the words, revealing a mean, cruel side to himself—_intentionally _so, rather than it being a pure expression of social ignorance—turn his small tousled head away, yell over his skinny shoulder that he'd _never _work for Mycroft, that he was too smart for that and that he'd find his own profession if he had to create a whole new type of career in order to do so.

Thinking back on that now, he reflects with a smirk that he did indeed—_consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job._ And where was Mycroft? Hidden somewhere in the higher reaches of the dreadfully mundane British government, perched in a velvet-cushioned chair and discussing foreign issues over cups of cold tea, while Sherlock lived in the smoke and darkness of London's grungier side, his life finding meaning in the thrill of the chase, the triumph of the game, the delight of the puzzle.

And, of course, in John.

He's not entirely sure how Mycroft works without an assistant of his own, or how he himself even operated before the army doctor came along. It must have been mundane, because despite the gorgeous pattern of mental challenges that his used to consist of, it's undeniable at this point that _emotions, _feelings—which, naturally, he wholly associates with John's arrival (_January 29th, 2010_, the computing part of his brain reminds him)—are one of the most powerful things, the most intriguing things that take a part in the activity of his mind and heart. Just because he doesn't approach them openly doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy looking in on them. Perhaps _enjoy _isn't the right word, but it definitely feels _good, _feels good whenever he gets that strange little spark in his chest, caused undoubtedly by the gleam of John's hazel-blue eyes or the shape of his mouth curving into a careless grin.

Mycroft has that assistant of his, of course—that woman—but she's no John. She's dull, works only for the work, not for the connection. Early on, Sherlock remembers being able to admire her devotion, and his brother's ability to harness someone so very loyal.

But John is a thousand times more so, a fact that Sherlock holds in his heart constantly, practically a bragging right.

_Mine is better than yours. _

_I went against your advice, brother, and I'm damn glad I did._


	45. Illusion

**A/N** _And now for a little canon scene drabble. This is set in the middle of S2E2 (The Hounds of Baskerville), if that wasn't obvious.__  
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**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, MapleleafCameo, DuShuZhi, maggiemacjack, johnsarmy, and (most of all!) , who brought this fic to 150 reviews!_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XLV. Illusion

John is confused as hell right now, but one thing that he's rock-solid positive about is that he's terrified out of his mind.

The air seems to hum with horrible, tense suspense, and he crouches against the wall in the tiny cell that serves as his protection, back pressed to the cold wall, knuckles white as he grips onto his mobile phone, the only sort of anchor to sanity that he currently has a hold on. Another one of the hound's horrible growls seeps through the chilled air, deep and rumbling and demonic, and he lets out an involuntary whimper, a momentary release of the all-consuming fear that grips his heart and lungs, twists his throat and poisons his mind.

_You have to get me out. _

He can't explain why the unearthly creature is so frightening—no, _beyond _frightening, far beyond frightening—after all, it's just a stupid dog, right, and John knows dogs, he's had plenty of experience with dogs… or at least as much as the average man of his age. He's never been particularly opposed to canines, not once, but…

_Rough, panting snarls, the thought of Henry Knight's father, mauled and reduced to bloody, shattered pieces, remembrance of the haunted look in the young man's pale eyes, the desperation that led him to contact them in the first place, the icy mist of the nighttime moor and the expression on Sherlock's face in the pub afterwards, the tremble of his hand, the sweat on his forehead and the desperation in his shaking lips, his unsteady voice… _

He can hear the paw-steps now, too heavy for a regular dog, approaching him slowly. The claws click and scrape along the lab's cold floor, and John can't help but shiver, his spine vibrating with endless chills. _Is this it? _The thing is merciless, absolutely vile, it'll tear him apart in moments, Sherlock will find his body here, bleeding everywhere, marring the perfect, medical white…

_Sherlock…_

_Sherlock! _

He wants to run, excess adrenaline bursting through his veins, heavy and fierce, gushing like waterfalls. The chemical darts frantically back and forth, with nowhere to go, churning with no friction to burn itself off, working itself more and more until his brain and heart and lungs are frozen with their own absurd motion, his legs are wobbling even without his weight on them.

Any second now.

_I can see it. _

And he can see it, the hulking, monstrous form, dark and ragged, its teeth inches long and gleaming with anticipatory saliva, dripping, eyes glowing like horrible ruby-toned embers, ready to tear and devour, a fiercer being than any serial killer—

But it's different, suddenly, blurs like a dream and then it's _him, _it's Sherlock, he's reaching out and the lights are on and his hand is on John's shoulder, the sweetest, softest, warmest touch imaginable, and everything's okay even though his heart is still racing, _Sherlock's here _and John's alive and it has to be alright, even if it doesn't make sense now.

It has to be alright.


	46. Family

**A/N** _This one is less concentrated on the specific dynamic between Sherlock and John, and more about 221b Baker Street as a whole.__  
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**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, innenlebenaussenwelt, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, Natalie Nallareet, and total-animal-lover_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLVI. Family

Both Sherlock and John have been raised on conflict—to different degrees, obviously, but when it came down to it, the fact was that both of them had rather unfriendly relationships with their respective siblings. And perhaps that's what causes them both (one more openly than the other) to so treasure the family dynamic that fills their daily lives now. They have each other, of course, but that's only the core of it—the vitally essential core, yet still something that wouldn't be quite as meaningful without the rest, everything else that surrounds it.

The flat, for one thing, has far more meaning than anyone ever acknowledges. It's a home, a familiar, cozy home that holds, amongst the scattered, half-frosted human limbs, messy stacks of microscope slides, and bullet-ridden walls, an undeniable sense of domesticity, of security. It's somewhere for them to return to at the end of the day, always relieved to take in its slightly musty but still warm scent—all three of them, even that who's so often overlooked.

After all, Mrs. Hudson really is the thing that binds them all together, in the end—she keeps her boys from ripping each other apart, she puts up with their noisy arguments from upstairs and brings them tea and biscuits when they didn't have time to get lunch while out at work or investigating a particularly intriguing new murder. She adores them both, and they her, like a mother, or even a favorite babysitter—a special friend, much closer than that landlady, and certainly not the housekeeper that she's so often mistaken for.

John, even being the newest addition to the dynamic, is an absolutely essential part of it. He's the most responsible of the three of them; he's always the one to make sure that the fridge is stocked (something that Mrs. Hudson would take care of, if only it didn't make him feel so guilty) and that the rent bill is paid down to the last cent (once again, their landlady would find a bit of error excusable, but he'd never let such a slip-up cross his mind). And, more than anything, he puts up with Sherlock—his fuse is the longest of all theirs, and it's extremely rare that he'll really get angry.

And, of course, Sherlock is at the very center of it all. His fiery, passionate existence is what pulled them all together in the first place. John owes everything to him, and the truth is that Mrs. Hudson does as well; if not for him, she'd probably still be stuck with that horrid Floridian husband. As childish as he may behave, the other two love him enough to hurt, and they know they do, even if such a thing so often escapes his notice. He cares for them in return, too, but that's a fact that he tends to be even more ignorant of.


	47. Creation

**A/N** _So, I wrote these so long ago that I don't even know how I thought the title of this tied into the content. Oh, well, I still don't think it's awful (though not necessarily one of the better ones, either). Also, I can totally see John as a hardcore Whovian and Trekker. Just saying.__  
_

**Thanks to** _Guest, johnsarmylady, and AJ Elfhawk_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLVII. Creation

John's never tried his hand at the creative arts. All of them seem rather useless to him, really—drawing, music, even writing. Well, writing of the fictional variety. And it is indeed a bit of a chore to maintain the blog cataloguing his and Sherlock's ventures, but he does it anyways, since he actually has _readers _at this point—fans, even.

Still, that's just about as nonfiction as it gets, and he's happy sticking to it. Fantasy worlds have never really appealed to him in the first place. They're… all a bit silly, really, even the ones that don't concern fairies and aliens. He can appreciate Doctor Who and Star Trek as much as the next man—alright, perhaps just a little bit more, when it comes to those two—but still, he's really not the type to get wound up in unreal plots and characters.

Not usually, in any case.

He can't remember just when he started reading mystery novels, but he's undeniably hooked.

And it's not because of anything made-up; that's what's so funny about the whole thing. He loves the badly written paperback crimes because they're _familiar. _He can associate with them, he can see himself in those pages, recognize the dark dynamic of the unlawful underground that he's so familiar with. In fact, he prides himself in being able to notice when the author makes an error—factual or even just in describing the precise feel of panic, the exact sensation of one's finger on a trigger and their eyes fixated on a target. He knows this better than them. He practically _is _a character, can easily see himself slipping into the pages, taking on the role of the slightly too clueless assistant that seems to plague the lines of any novel he picks up. Some of them even have remarkably similar backgrounds to him, and he can't help but be entertained by the similarities.

But the books have absolute main characters, too—always the dark, brooding detective, highly intellectual but also witty, sharp, quick and likable. The one who always gets the girl in the end, seduces them with his very atmosphere, all leather jackets and flashing eyes and flirty manner.

Sherlock is more impressive than any of these fictional mystery-solvers, though. Sherlock, lighter and slimmer, clean-shaven and pale rather than tanned and scuffed with stubble, typically clad in a tight-fitting suit instead of absurd gear more appropriate for a motorcycle rider than a crime fighter.

He's unique, unlike any of the detectives that traverse the pages of John's guilty-pleasure books, and undeniably superior to them.

And John thinks that that may be another reason why he loves reading them so much. Because they make his reality all the more vivid, intensify the magnificence of the man that he gets to live and work with, show how even the dreamiest authors can't come up with anything near matching him.

Sherlock will always be better, and that's something that John is positive of—something that he carries with him in the proudest manner possible.


	48. Childhood

**A/N** _I wish that BBC Sherlock would explore a bit more of Sherlock and Mycroft's home life when they were younger- idk, the idea of kid!lock really fascinates me. (Hence the kindergarten au that I'm probably going to write someday, but that's irrelevant to this story, so I'll shut up.)_

**Thanks to** bazingaitsshamy, sevenpercent, total-animal-lover, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, and Guest

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLVIII. Childhood

"What was it like?" John asks one day, absolutely out of the blue. Sherlock looks up, his eyebrows creasing at the unexpected and rather vague inquiry.

"What was what like?"

"Your… childhood. Living with Mycroft, and your parents… you never told me anything about, well, any of that."

_And probably for a reason. Just how dull are you? _Sighing through his nose, Sherlock glances back towards the book in his hands—a study of the finer aspects of forensic investigation, and an utterly useless tome that he's reading only to try and figure out whether Anderson's constant stupidity is partially owed to actual official procedures—then sets it aside and leans farther back into his chair, gaze drifting upwards.

"Why would you care?"

"I guess I just… wondered. I mean, you know about me and Harry, that we… don't get along particularly well, and it doesn't really look from the outside like you and Mycroft do, either. And what about your parents? Did they appreciate your… talent… or were they like you, too? I suppose they must have been—"

"Stop," Sherlock groans. It's making itself painfully clear that John's had these questions in mind for a while, what with his ability to list them off at such a rapid pace now. He can't target why in the world the doctor would care about such things, let alone why he could possibly think that now would be a good time to go seeking out answers. Sherlock had been _content—_well, almost content, what with the study in idiocy at hand and companionable silence filling the flat. And now he's being pestered by useless, meddlesome questions.

"Sorry, I just—I was wondering."

"Mycroft and I spent most of our lives tormenting one another. Our parents rarely had time for us, especially our father—I believe I met him twice in my life before his death, which was never explained for us. Our mother was a powerful, respectable woman who didn't think us worth her time and handed us over to a number of nannies. The Holmes household… had no _family _in it." He speaks the words in a steady, matter-of-fact manner, still staring at the ceiling, which has a damp spot in its corner, quite possibly home to some sort of fungus. "There's nothing to know."

They're both silent, then, before John finally speaks again, his tone quiet and questioning. "What about now? Would you consider this to be a… a family? You, me, Mrs. Hudson… if Mycroft and your mother aren't a family to you, what about us?"

That was most certainly unexpected. Sherlock takes a moment to deliberate, before finally answering in a slow, thoughtful manner. "I… I suppose so. More so than them, at least. It's more… comfortable here."

A faint smile brushes over John's features, and he settles back into his chair, looking much more satisfied.

"Good."


	49. Stripes

**A/N** _Established relationship alert!_

**Thanks to** _DuShuZi, DandyLeonine, Hummingbird1759, MapleleafCameo, bazingaitsshamy, CakeBook, johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XLIX. Stripes

Sherlock seems inexplicably fond of John's jumper sometimes. Not the thickly cable-knit, cream-shaded one, but rather one of the thinner variety—specifically, the garment shaded in wide, solid stripes of black and white, the one that he's had for years. Harry used to tease him, claim that it made him look like a convict zebra, but he himself has always rather liked it. It's comfortable, the cloth soft and nowhere near scratchy, and fits him perfectly even after all this time.

And one of its greatest advantages is that Sherlock doesn't seem to mind it at all. He'll occasionally scoff at some of John's apparently lesser outfit choices, rolling his eyes and adjusting the always-pristine collar of his own flawlessly ironed shirt (sometimes a pale off-white, otherwise deep grey or vivid purple) and averting his eyes purposefully. But when John's wearing the black-and-white jumper, well, Sherlock almost seems to watch him more, green-grey eyes focused on the garment from across the room, flicking quickly away when John's own gaze met his.

"What is it that you like so much about the stupid shirt, anyways?" he asks one day over breakfast. He's wearing the jumper, of course, the ends of the sleeves pushed back to avoid any potential stains from the strawberry jam that he's spreading over half of a toasted bagel.

The detective grumbles something, running his fingers over the newspaper unfolded in front of him. "Like? Who says I like it?"

"I say you like it," John half-teases. "Come on, I've seen the way you look at it. I'm not _all _stupid, you know," he adds cuttingly, taking a small bite of his breakfast and sitting back to watch Sherlock struggle. "So, go ahead. Is it the pattern? Colors?"

"Lack of colors," Sherlock corrects under his breath, then shrugs. "It… I suppose it suits you."

"Suits me," John repeats, his eyebrows raised incredulously. "Well. Thanks, I suppose? That isn't really… the kind of thing you care about, I thought."

"Not on normal people…" The detective is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second, and he stares at the table, now drumming his fingers on the edge. "It's just—I suppose it could be considered… attractive, alright?" Now there's a flush creeping up his neck, the color of watermelon juice, and John's lips are curving into a grin at his partner's obvious humiliation.

"You think I'm attractive in it, huh?" he chuckles, bracing his elbows on the table and reaching out to hold his fingers over Sherlock's. "Nothing wrong with that. You aren't too bad in those insanely tight suits, you know."

Sherlock raises one hand to his own violet shirt, looking wary, as though there's a possibility that John's lying. "…I'm not?"

"No, you're not, you idiot. They're _attractive, _as well, though I can't possibly imagine how this old thing is." He rolls the edge of the jumper's sleeve between his fingertips, then shrugs. "Oh, well, if you like it, all the better for me, right?"


	50. Breaking the Rules

**A/N** _Shamelessly shippy and slightly OOC; deal with it. Also, we're friggin' HALFWAY THROUGH. WOOT. Hopefully the second half will be posted much faster than the first, if I can ever get the hang of that whole 'daily update' concept..._

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

L. Breaking the Rules

Sherlock's not sure whether or not Lestrade and the rest know about the 'relationship' that he and John are in at this point—he's never said anything about it himself, and if John has, he hasn't considered it worth the space in his memory that it would take up. He doesn't particularly care whether or not the police are aware of the now-official partnership of him and his blogger, anyways. It's not as if it's their concern, and Lestrade himself would probably just let it go without a second thought. (Donovan and Anderson, on the other hand, might do a little more to express their probable disgust. Still; not as though he cares.)

But the fact remains that they keep their connection relatively toned-down, in any case. Kissing, for example, is strictly limited to the flat, and John seems vaguely embarrassed by even so much as a handhold in public, though Sherlock can't bring himself to care what the Yarders think. Still, the former army doctor is sure to remind him constantly that just because they've decided to accept a more romantic connection between themselves doesn't mean that they have to display it bluntly to the public.

It irritates Sherlock sometimes, though—until, one day, he finally breaks. It's Anderson that sparks his frustration, naturally. When _isn't _it Anderson? The dark-haired forensic worker is commenting on Sherlock's own social awkwardness, the words both a thousand times more offensive and more laughable when voiced in his nasally, grating tone.

"It's no wonder he doesn't have any _real _friends," he's whining to Donovan, and it's far from quiet. "Just that Watson who follows him around like a puppy dog… still doesn't know what he's gotten into, I bet, still thinks that Holmes is a genius and doesn't realize that he's also a heartless—"

_That's it. _Fury sparking in his veins, Sherlock reaches out suddenly, grabs John by the shoulders and pulls him close before the shorter man has time to do more than yelp in surprise. He carefully positions his gloved hand other John's chin and tilts it upwards, crushing their lips together and grinning against his partner's surprised mouth as Anderson's drawl cuts off abruptly. _How's that for heartless? _he thinks gloatingly, drawing out the kiss for a long moment before lifting his head again. But he still wraps his arms possessively around John's shoulders, tilts his head so that he can press his cheek comfortably into the top of the blonde-haired head.

"What the hell are you doing?" John demands, but he sounds more fond than annoyed. Sherlock just lets out a low chuckle in response, squeezing John's shoulders tighter as his gaze finds Anderson. The greasy-haired man's already fishlike face is parted in a blatant jaw-drop, further heightening his resemblance to some underwater creature, and Sherlock lets out a low purr of delight into John's hair, rather pleased with himself.

"Alright, you _child_," John mutters gruffly, detaching himself. "Isn't there something you're supposed to be investigating, here?"


	51. Sport

**A/N** _Wow, so the reception both here and on Tumblr makes it look like you guys really enjoyed that last one. Awesome! On to the second half, then..._

**Thanks to** _265, Guest, __johnsarmylady, Maniacal Mittens, total-animal-lover, innenlebenaussenwelt, bazingaitsshamy, and MapleleafCameo_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LI. Sport

"Have you ever played a sport?" John asks one morning.

Sherlock shakes his head with surprising amiability from his position on the sofa, his hands propped under his chin and his feet pressed against the pillow on the other end. "Pointless. That sort of game, just running in circles… it's useless, repetitive. And it never achieves anything." His tone is almost vehement, and John's rather surprised.

"Dislike them?"

"Hate them," Sherlock replies darkly. "They're absurd. One of mankind's weakest inventions, on the exact opposite side of the spectrum from microscopes and guns."

"Microscopes and guns," John repeats, and he can't help but grin—just a small grin, to himself—because those words sum up Sherlock so perfectly. _Microscopes and guns. _And perhaps a bit of violin music interwoven between the two. That right there is an accurate enough description of the man he lives with.

"You?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever played a sport?"

"Football, in school," he admits almost guiltily. "God, I was awful at it, though. Suited me much better to sit at home in front of the telly with my action figures, apparently."

"And yet you ended up going to the war."

"Well—yeah, I suppose I did." There's a long moment of silence, and he looks away, frowning slightly. "Not like I was a combat soldier or anything, though. Even there I did a lot of sitting around." A lie—those had been the most exhausting months of his life. Still, he didn't want take credit for the much braver foot soldiers, whose entire lives seemed to consist of running and ducking. The drills were hard enough, in his opinion.

"You were still brave, though." Sherlock makes the comment casually, as though it's the most trivial thing in the world, and John freezes, a surprising warmth coming into his chest.

"Not—not really…"

"Don't deny the obvious, John, it just makes you look like even more of an idiot than you already are," Sherlock grumbles.

"Well—then, yeah, I suppose so. You know, your brother told me on the first night we met that 'bravery is the kindest word for stupidity.' I've never forgotten that." It's true—Mycroft's words have haunted him, in all honesty, followed him day and night and tormented him wherever he walked or slept. _Stupidity. _Was that all that his efforts amounted to, in the end? Just a blind struggle to establish some sort of heroic identity for himself?

"My _brother _has no right to talk about stupidity," Sherlock retorts.

John snorts with laughter, lifting up his tea mug. "Yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? Whereas he's one of the most intelligent people I know."

"_The _most intelligent person you know."

"Actually, I—"

"Don't," Sherlock objects, raising a hand. "As painful as it may be to say, I don't match up to him on that scale. I'm _close, _but he's superior. However, Mycroft also manages to be an idiot at the same time, a trap that I luckily evade."

John just laughs again and shakes his head. "Yeah, right."


	52. Deep in Thought

**A/N** _I've always wondered what it was like when Sherlock first told John about his mind palace._

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LII. Deep in Thought

"Wait, a _palace_?" John repeats, clearly trying to hold back laughter.

"Yes." Sherlock narrows his eyes, irritated. "A palace. It's… the visualization that works out best for me, and before you begin to criticize that, I'd like to _kindly _remind you that someone with your mental capacity probably couldn't manage to envision so much as a mind closet."

"Alright—alright, I'm not insulting you." John holds his hands up, but hurt is vivid in his hazel-blue eyes. It's obvious that he doesn't like being called unintelligent, but he puts up with it, never tells Sherlock outright to just _stop. _The detective probably would lessen the flow of insults directed at John's cleverness if only the doctor _did _ask him to stop, but apparently his pride level is too high for such a request.

"It's actually a rather common memory technique, and a highly effective one, though it takes a tremendous amount of focus—hence my inability to respond to you when I'm immersed in it."

"So, it's like a sort of trance?" John questions, leaning forward on his elbows.

"If you want to use such a vulgar, primitive term," Sherlock mutters. "In any case, you're distracting—that's why I tend to enter it only when you're out of the room."

"I… distract you?" he repeats. His eyebrows draw together in clear confusion. "How am I distracting? I can be quiet, if you want, just sit in the corner or whatever… I don't mean to interrupt you—"

"That's beside the point," Sherlock snarls, trying to deal with his own frustration. The truth is that he's unused to such interference; usually people in the room _isn't _the sort of thing that bothers him, so long as they're minding their own business and not making too much noise. But with John… John's different. It's as though, when the other man is in the room, Sherlock's attention needs to be at least partially focused on him. He can ignore him sufficiently enough to experiment and such, but for something as absolutely concentrated as his mind palace… he can't do it, with John there. It's impossible. "Just… try to keep out from now on. I'll let you know when I need to consult with myself."

"Consult with yourself," John repeats, shaking his head in slight, entertained disbelief before nodding and sitting back. "Alright, I can do that. So long as your little ventures aren't so stupidly frequent."

"I can try to keep them as sparse as possible," Sherlock agrees grouchily. "But sometimes such a thing is essential, and you're going to have to learn to deal with it."

"I'm trying to be agreeable, Sherlock; you don't need to get all snappy on me. Okay? I think this'll work out just fine for both of us. I'm sorry for being such a… distraction."

"It's fine," Sherlock grumbles, crossing his arms. He's not angry at John—well, not John himself in any case. He's just confused. _Since when does a single person keeping to himself serve as a distraction?_


	53. Keeping a Secret

**A/N** _It had to be done. Also, I am SO sorry that I've taken so long to update, I literally keep on forgetting._

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, total-animal-lover, Guest, Hummingbird1759, and johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LIII. Keeping a Secret

There are some things that John keeps entirely to himself, a level of privacy that never has the slightest chance of being breached. They're more than _secrets, _more like absolutely confidential suspicions—things that even he is unsure about, and therefore doesn't want to share with anyone, not even Harry or Sherlock, on the off chance that he might turn out to be wrong about them, himself.

Well, alright, when he really gets down to it, there's only one thing like that.

John Watson, ex-soldier, mid-thirties, companion to the world's only consulting detective, questions his own sexual orientation.

And it's such a pathetic, mundane thing that he wants to laugh at it, some days—because there _are _the days when such a doubt seems incredibly distant; of _course _he likes women, he has all his life, and there's no reason for that to change at an age when he should already be married. It's absurd. Laughable, even.

But other times, he can't be quite so sure.

Those _other times, _if he's completely honest with himself, are very specific times, too. Always with Sherlock, of course, and in his best moments—when the light of a sunset causes the edges of his dark curls to shine a low crimson-like copper, when he makes a connection in his head and the edge of his mouth curls up in a triumphant grin, when his eyes flash intently as he reaches the realization that will turn a case around.

Because, in those moments, John can't possibly deny that he's _attracted _to Sherlock. He sees him as more than a friend, more than a brother—God, it's so stupid, but he _wants _him, wants to feel him and be with him, in just about the least platonic manner possible. He won't pretend that he didn't start at Mycroft's prod back in Buckingham Palace—

_How would you know?_

…And he feels _guilty, _almost, for the things he's been imagining, for the things he wants.

And with Irene Adler, of course, he's swamped by what can only be identified as jealousy. As for the Woman herself, well, he's barely attracted to her, and that's disconcerting. Because she's _stunning, _everything about her—her face, her figure, her sleek attitude and sharp wit. And yet, when he walks in on the two of them that first time, in Adler's house, sees her standing over him, it's not the detective that he's jealous of.

_Get away from Sherlock, _he thinks, desperately, blindly, because Sherlock is _his, _in every way that there is, and if sexually is one of them, then so be it.

He'll keep up the denials, of course—_I'm not actually gay—_both inside and outside of his own mind, but somewhere, deep down, he knows the truth. Maybe it took the likes of Irene Adler to teach him, but he definitely knows the truth.

Still, that's not to say he has any reason to tell Sherlock.


	54. Tower

**A/N** _I really like it when they're frightened for each other, naturally. Hence this slightly nonsensical little case drabble. Also, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 REVIEWS! I never imagined that I'd come anywhere near this many. It really means a lot to me, guys._

**Thanks to** _Suki-chan36 (thank you, I fixed that error!), Rayne-Malfoy10, MapleleafCameo, and johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LIV. Tower

"Make sure that the place is surrounded_,_" Sherlock snarls into the phone held just under his chin, making sure to keep his eyes up and focused on his thin window of view into the office building. He's cramped tight in a coat closet, the door open just the slightest bit so that he can watch the scene in the room before him unfold. A meeting is taking place, and the man at the head of it has a gun concealed in his suit top, though the others, naturally, are unaware. Sherlock's task is to try and stop the secret psychopath before he takes down the whole room of important businessmen, as is his intention.

"It is." John's voice crackles faintly through the speakers, turned down to their lowest possible volume and additionally muffled by Sherlock's gloved fingers. "Are you in there?"

"Hiding," Sherlock confirms. "Are the police in place?"

"Right outside the door."

"Alright, I'm going to draw his attention long enough for them to get in."

"What are you going to do?" John asks anxiously.

Rather than answering, Sherlock shoves the phone into his pocket, straightening up and bursting out of the closet in a single swift motion. The gun-wielding man's pale eyes flash up to meet his, and he gets a brief glimpse of the breadth of their insanity before darting forward, throwing an arm out and knocking him to the ground just as he whips out his weapon. Cries of shock and confusion come from the others when he fires a single shot into the ceiling, his gun arm flailing. Sherlock grits his teeth and sprints for the partially open window, forcing it wider as another shot follows him. He grips the edge of the sill and swings his legs over it, dangling by his fingertips. Two more bullets fly over his head before the sounds of a struggle reach his ears, and he knows that the police must have finally arrived.

Trying to keep his breathing at an even rate, he dares to glance over his shoulder and immediately regrets it. It's at least ten stories down to the sidewalk—there's no way he'd survive such an impact. He clenches his fingers tighter, trying to ignore the fact that they're aching with insane strain, and that a weaker man than him would have let go long ago. His feet scramble uselessly against the cold metal side of the structure, and a bitter breeze tugs cruelly at him. He can hear cries of amazement and terror from the ground, but he forces himself to ignore them, to keep breathing.

Then there are suddenly warm hands on his wrists, hoisting him up, pulling him forward enough for him to get decent leverage and heave himself forward, toppling back inside rather ungracefully and exhaling in relief at the solid floor underneath him.

"Jesus, that was _stupid,_" John chokes, not letting go of his hands but rather crouching down beside him. His face is pale and his eyes unblinking. "You could have died!"

"That man's an amazing shot. He would've got me for sure if I hadn't… avoided him."

"Just don't be such an idiot next time, okay? You scared the _shit _out of me, Sherlock."


	55. Waiting

**A/N** _Wow, two updates, one day after another? Been a while since that happened._

**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, , innenlebenaussenwelt, johnsarmylady, total-animal-lover, 265, Guest, DuShuZi, and bazingaitsshamy_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LV. Waiting

It's the one thousand and ninety-fifth day of waiting that John hears a knock on the door.

At first, he tries to ignore it, but it shows to be insistent, a steady pattern of raps that he can't quite hold at bay.

It's irritating. Today is a day that he wants to be able to have to himself—one of the rare days, in fact, that he'll allow a return to 221b itself. He's moved out, of course, found cheaper, trashier accommodations with an all too underwhelming roommate, but every year, on the anniversary of the Fall, he's returned here. Sat in the silence, let the ticking of the clock wash over him. Mrs. Hudson never rented out the flat again, apparently—221c finally got a buyer, but never this one. The familiar walls are tense, several bits of furniture still in place, but with notable aspects gone—the microscope, the refrigerator.

Sherlock's chair is still there, and John moves over to it slowly, his feet barely brushing against the floor as he settles into the thickly dusted cushion and lets his head tilt back, eyes slipping shut. The first year, there was still a trace of the late detective's scent clinging to the fabric, but now, on the third, there's nothing, nothing but dust and memories.

He doesn't know why he always returns, or if he'll ever stop. It's stupid, sentimental, and he knows that, yet he can't help but come anyways. It's like he's waiting, like they're all waiting—John, the flat, Mrs. Hudson. Even Scotland Yard and St. Bart's, on the rare occasions that John visits them, seem hushed somehow, silently anticipating the arrival of someone who they know will never return.

The knocking comes again, sharp and loud, from downstairs. _Mrs. Hudson must have gone out. _John sighs, coughing slightly when the action raises a wave of dust. He doesn't want to have to take care of his former landlady's business—despite how rude the action may be, perhaps he should just wait the knocker out, until they finally give up and leave him in peace. One day of peace.

More knocking, sharp, frantic.

Then the doorbell rings—_maximum pressure adjusted to the half-second_—and John's eyes fly open, he half-rises out of the chair because that sound brings back so much. _Client. _And then he's angry, angry that someone should dare to surprise and damage him like that, even unintentionally, and he's down the stairs, hurrying up to the door without noticing the tall, slim figure that darkens the glass, throwing it open with an exasperated cry flying out of his mouth.

"Would you _leave me—_?"

But then John freezes, his words cut themselves off as he takes in the sight in the doorway.

It's him.

_It's him. _


	56. Danger Ahead

**A/N** _A little more plotless concern, because why not? And though many of you asked for it, I don't think I'll be doing a sequel to 55 (Waiting)... at least, not at this point in time. In response to **mudkipz, **I am DEFINITELY making a sequel! I just finished outlining it, and I think the first chapter should be out in just about three weeks now. Oh, and one more thing- HOW ABOUT THE FREAKIN' HOBBIT, HUH? It seriously blew my mind with how amazing it was. _

**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, Natalie Nallareet, Suki-chan36, johnsarmylady, CakeBook, DuShuZi, and mudkipz_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LVI. Danger Ahead

"You don't have to come," he reminds John forcefully, a last-ditch effort. "It would probably be better for you to stay behind, you realize—safer."

"You think I care about safe at this point?" John half-laughs, his eyes somehow managing to be both bright and weary. "I gave up any concept of safe the day I shot that cabbie down, Sherlock. Safe is… not going to happen for me, anymore. And I don't _want _it to, either, so don't you dare feel guilty. Not that you would."

_I might. _Sherlock gives a quick, tight nod, but his head is still buzzing with desperation. _Don't, you idiot, don't come, this is one time when you need to stay behind… _but he can't deny that the attack he's about to attempt would be a lot easier with an assistant. It's just that he doesn't want to _risk _John like this, because the criminals he's going to try and convict, they've got to be the dangerous enemies the two have ever been faced with, excepting only Moriarty himself. _Unpredictable, violent… _he could list off their dangerous traits, but that would only get him more worked up, and a small amount of anxiety is already far more than he's used to.

"You'll have to be _careful, _though, you understand that?" he insists roughly. "I can't—we can't afford for you to get… hurt."

"You don't want me to die?"

"You're not going to _die!_" Sherlock says, the words tumbling over one another in their frantic effort to escape his mouth. "There's no reason why you should… expect yourself to… _die._ That's absurd, do you understand me? Ridiculous."

"Sherlock… calm down," John implores softly, reaching out to take the detective's wrist and squeeze it lightly. Sherlock inhales, trying to tame the strikes of desperation gripping his skull. "I'm going to be fine, and you're going to be fine, but we can only be sure of that if we both go. You wouldn't want me to go without you, right?"

"Why the hell would I?"

"And that's the same reason why I don't want you to go without me. Okay? I just want to make sure that we both come out of this unharmed, and the best way to do that is to work together. Two heads are always better than one, right?"

"Except for when one of those heads belongs to an absolute idiot who will only slow the other one down."

"Sherlock."

"…Fine," he exhales, looking away and trying to ignore the tightness writhing in his stomach. "We'll go together. But you have to be _careful._ Even if they have hostages, no heroics. Don't you dare risk yourself, especially not for other people." _You're… you're a thousand times more important than any of them. A million times more. And if you forget it, I'm going to kill you… so long as you're not already dead._


	57. Sacrifice

**A/N** _Vulnerable!Sherlock because yes. (Also, we surpassed 221 reviews with the last chapter, mwah)_

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, total-animal-lover, johnsarmylady, and Natalie Nallareet_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LVII. Sacrifice

"John!"

He's never heard Sherlock's voice raised to such a desperate pitch, and when he turns around, he can see that the detective's wide, silvery eyes are shining—actually shining with what must be tears. _Tears. _It's such a ridiculous sight that he can't help but laugh, bitter and low in his throat, as he locks his gaze with Sherlock's one more time. Even though he surely knows that such an effort is useless, Sherlock is attempting to pull away from the thick-armed thugs that are holding him back, his feet scrabbling desperately on the damp warehouse floor and his teeth clenched with effort.

"Don't you—_don't_," Sherlock begs, his struggles weakening for a moment. A deep breath shudders through his pale throat, and his next words are spoken with more clarity. "Please don't do this."

"What, and let them kill you?" John scoffs back. "As if I'd ever do that. You really are stupid, aren't you?"

"I won't let you do this."

"You don't need to let me."

"No—no, _please,_ you selfish—you—take me," he chokes, turning to one of the men restraining him, "please, I'm offering myself, I'm more valuable than him, you know I am…"

"And so it will be much more fun to see you so damaged. Already, the cool disposition that we've grown used to has been stripped away quite thoroughly, now, hasn't it?" The words, high and cold, come from the man standing beside John—the one with the gun. His hair is thin and greying and his body rather frail underneath its stiff black suit, but John knows at this point that he's utterly twisted inside. How long have they been hunting him down, now? Four weeks? Five?

And they've finally caught up, only to be hopelessly outnumbered, caught unprepared and told that one can escape, even turn the grey-haired man in to the police, so long as the other willingly dies…

It's absurd, of course it is—pathetic theatrics, but John's dealt with his share of madmen over his years with Sherlock, and he knows that they gain their pleasure from watching pain, not committing clean murders. This particular killer and his team—they know that they're not going to last much longer, and they want to go out with a bang.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock snarls—or it would be a snarl, if all the energy wasn't drained from his voice, leaving it more of a hoarse rasp. "You can't do this. We—we'll let you get away, if you just… just let him live…"

The hunched old man erupts into laughter, drawing a slim shotgun and lifting it to the back of John's head. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Holmes; we know that you won't let us continue on."

"I will, I swear—John, don't let them…"

_I'm sorry,_ John mouths as the cold metal nuzzles the base of his neck, sending shivers down his spine and through his chest. He knows that he should be afraid, but he somehow can't find it in himself to feel any emotion other than apology. He's tearing Sherlock apart, and he knows that, he hates it, but he simply can't bear for things to be the other way around. These criminals, they have to be caught, and since they'll go willingly so long as he performs this one simple sacrifice…

"_John!_"

It's a _scream, _a high-pitched shriek, a last-ditch effort, but it's too late, because fire is exploding in the back of John's skull and light is blinding him, and then there's absolutely nothing at all.


	58. Kick in the Head

**A/N** _If you're as much of a shipper (and as twisted as a person) as me, this chapter is probably going to be even more painful than the last, yay! _

**Thanks to** _innenlebenaussenwelt, johnsarmylady, DuShuZi, Motaku1235, MapleleafCameo, Hummingbird1759, Orchfan, Ghibly101, Natalie Nallareet, and Rain-Malfoy10_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LVIII. Kick in the Head

"Mary and I are—well, we're getting married."

Sherlock's attention flies up as he tears his gaze away from the wall, focusing wildly on John, who's watching him with a nervous sort of half-smile, his eyes gleaming with undisguised happiness. Sherlock, though, is far from happy. In fact, he feels nauseated, run through with an electric shock, and he forces himself not to gape, not to sound angry, but just slightly annoyed as his next words come pouring out.

"As if. You know that proposal's not going to last more than a few months. You two have only been going out for, what, two weeks? Three?"

"We've been going out for a year and a half, Sherlock."

"That long? Really?" he mutters, struggling to maintain the disinterest in his tone, even as his lungs and heart contort in all matter of directions. _Married. Married. Married. _"Are you… going to move out, then?"

A quick, eager nod. "Moving out, getting a real job. She has good connections, you know. I'll try to stay in contact, though—might even stick up a post on that old blog, if you ever get something really interesting."

"Right." Sherlock's speaking through numb lips, and he wants desperately to give his head a sharp shake, jar himself out of what must be unreality. It's… it's a _nightmare, _the words that are sinking into his mind, and he can't quite figure out why. He doesn't want John to leave, doesn't want to work alone, doesn't want to see that stupid little blog left abandoned. "Well. Enjoy."

"Oh, come on. You can't be at least a bit happy for me?"

"Why the hell should I be happy, John?" Sherlock finally hisses, glaring with twisted satisfaction as the smile fully melts away from his friend's face. "You—you're the only person that's ever… been close to me, and now…"

"Don't be ridiculous." John gives a nervous, clearly upset little laugh. "You… you still have everyone. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly… none of them are going away, are they?"

"But you are."

"Like I said… I'll try to stay in contact…" He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes downcast. "Look, I didn't expect you to take it this badly. It's really not as extreme as it sounds… and I'm happy about it, I'm happy with _her, _I—"

"Good for you," Sherlock snorts, his voice dripping with sarcastic bitterness as he stands and paces towards the door, ignoring John's quick "where are you going?", instead stepping into the hall and continuing on down it, trying desperately to separate himself from the poisonous truth.


	59. No Way Out

**A/N** _One more angsty chapter. Oops. It's pretty fluffy for the next few after this, though. _

**Thanks to** _innenlebenaussenwelt, johnsarmylady, Motaku1235, Natalie Nallareet, and Mrs. Hudson_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LIX. No Way Out

The water is everywhere, dark, rolling waves of it moving across the already wet cement paving the underground chamber. The only light comes from the swerving beams of the flashlights clutched in John and Sherlock's hands, and even those are beginning to splutter under the pressure of the jets of water blasting down from the cracked ceiling, rendering their bursts of pale light erratic and sharp. Thirty seconds, at the most, is all they have before the roof caves in completely, releasing the whole of the London sewer system down on their heads. Gallons of water—tons of it, not to mention splintered blocks of cement. If they're still here in half a minute, they're going to die.

"Are you sure the door's blocked?" John shouts over the powerful rushing. His flashlight glints off of a particularly thick stream, cascading down like a miniature dirty waterfall. He can't help but recall a much more massive drop, back in Switzerland, its churning vat of foam and dark ripples, and his stomach swerves at the thought that Sherlock's real death could be caused by the same source as his fake one.

John will be dying, too, but that seems insignificant somehow. Unimportant next to the other life that will be lost along with his. The ever-growing icy pool is up to his calves now, soaking through the thick material of his jeans and raising goosebumps on his skin, the dark blue denim plastered to the shape of his legs.

"Positive," Sherlock calls back, ramming his shoulder against the single exit in one more desperate attempt to release them. But the small door, set into the concrete wall, remains as sturdy as always, it unmoving iron handle twinkling as if to mock them.

"…Damn," John gasps, just as another leak springs to life far above his head. "Is… is this in, then? We're going to be crushed."

"Yes," Sherlock replies, evenly, softly. His tone is almost wondering, and it dawns on them both simultaneously that this is it. This is the climax of everything. John laughs, the sound hollow and almost immediately lost in the cacophony of water all around them. He had no idea when he got out of bed this morning that he wouldn't live to see nightfall.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock gets out, "that I—"

"No." John steps forward, his legs dragging in the deep pool, and reaches out to Sherlock, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and holding him as tight as he can—tight enough to suffocate, but that doesn't matter, no danger is relevant any longer. He doesn't feel sad, not in the least, but there are tears for some reason, anyways, hot against his eyes and cheeks. "Don't you dare apologize."

"You're going to die because of me, John."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The noise of the ceiling finally bursting is tremendous, but John doesn't look up, just hides his face in Sherlock's shoulder, closes his eyes and listens to the twin beating of their hearts and waits for it to be over.


	60. Rejection

**A/N** _Alright, so it's not exactly fluffy, but at least it's not angst this time, right?_

**Thanks to** _Mycroft, Guest, jc, MapleleafCameo, and johnsarmylady_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LX. Rejection

"You know, sometimes I really think you must be _blind,_" Sarah sighs. She's not smiling, not even stiffly—her face is practically grim, something that John's grown to expect in her; she's an awfully serious person, a trait that manifests itself in ways that grate a bit on his nerves.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a man in your life who absolutely adores you, John, and you don't even realize that. Sometimes I think that you feel the same way about him, but…" She stops, shakes her head before proceeding. "But you never made a move to break up with me, and I'm really starting to think that maybe that's because you honestly don't realize it yourself."

"What… what are you talking about?" John asks warily, anxiety rearing up inside of him. The only words that really stand out to him are 'break up,' and, taking in the cold set of her features, he suddenly realizes what's happening. "Sarah, no, please—whatever I did wrong, I can fix it, I—"

"You didn't do anything 'wrong' at all," she replies evenly. "It's him, John. I can't stand him, and he can't stand me, and you know that perfectly well. And I honestly don't think it's because he's a bad person. He's arrogant, yes, and he has the mind of a child, but I think our dislike comes from the same source."

"I don't—"

"It's because of you, John." For the first time, a hint of gentleness comes into her voice, and she makes a move as if to reach out for his hand before stopping herself. Her eyes are weary, sad, but they're also certain. She has no ambiguity whatsoever concerning the words coming out of her mouth—that's painfully clear. "It's because I'm jealous of him and he's jealous of me, because we both like you, quite a bit. And you care about him more than you do about me. I know you do. So… I just don't want to get in the way of you two anymore."

"Sarah," John tries again, desperation rising in his voice. He doesn't want to seem clingy, but this… this is completely ridiculous. "Sarah, please, that's not it at all. He's my friend, that's all, and he's like that to _everyone, _believe me. It's not about you, it's definitely not about me—I don't want to lose you over him."

"You'd rather that than lose him over me."

He hesitates, confused, because it's true, of course he would. But… there shouldn't be a reason that he has to choose. There's nothing wrong with being able to have both of them, is there? One as a friend, and one as a romantic partner?

"Just trust me on this. Give it a few months, maybe a year or two…" Her mouth does twist into a bitter smile, then, but it doesn't come anywhere near reaching her eyes. "You'll come to terms with it, eventually, and then you'll be thanking me."


	61. Fairy Tale

**A/N** _Totally different style here, due to the title/prompt._

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, total-animal-lover, Motaku1235, and Orchfan_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXI. Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a soldier. He was a quiet soldier, a good soldier, a loyal soldier. He fought valiantly for his country, lived through battle after battle, confronted the bloodshed with an iron jaw and a steel will. He was scared, oh, he was very scared, but he never let it be known, and none of his comrades would have believed such a thing if they'd been told so. _Oh, not him, _they'd laugh, _no, he's the bravest of us all. Shocker that he doesn't have a lady back home. _

The soldier didn't have a lady back home, which wasn't to say he didn't want one. As a matter of fact, the brave little man desired love above all else, but it was his biggest secret, and he didn't tell anyone—not even himself. That truth was kept locked up deep inside the quiet soldier, hidden somewhere in the depths of his stomach, or perhaps his liver—nowhere near his heart, for its presence could be a danger there, and he already lived with enough danger; there was no need for him to have enemies on the inside as well as the out.

That all changed one day, though. One day when he felt the sting of a bullet like those which he'd pried out of his friends so many times before, burning like fire deep in his skin and muscle and tendon, branding him with a consequence, a horrible punishment for his good deeds. He'd be sent back home, back where there were no real friends, where there would only be the dark-eyed sister and the hollow lack of a home, the stiff cane and the raging nightmares.

Nobody understood the poor soldier, back home. None of them knew the battlefield.

Until, one day, he met another man, a man who _was _the battlefield.

His savior was tall, with the beautiful face of an elf or a fairy, skin the color of the moon and hair stained deep with the shades of a thousand nights. But the soldier's favorite part of the gorgeous-faced man was his eyes, endless eyes that seemed to contain the gleam of galaxies, stardust silver, early-morning blue, late-evening green.

Everything about him sparkled.

And the soldier knew that he wasn't lost anymore, because this was just what he'd been looking for, in all the days of dreading sleep and nightmares, the sweaty, bloody hours spent dodging bullets in the desert land, even his childhood, a cheerful period that still seemed as though it was lacking something from the very start.

The soldier didn't know about soulmates, but he still felt the pull, all the same. The longing lived deep inside his heart, sprouted inside that very organ that he'd tried so hard to keep locked away, soft and gentle and wondrous. One day, he'd learn to name the love, but not quite yet. Not for many months, for a fall and a rise and a thousand little trips out to buy milk.

It waited, though, curled up cozily inside of him, ever patient, knowing that someday, soon or far, it would get its chance to rise to the surface.


	62. Magic

**A/N** _Holy hell. Did I just post every day for a whole week? This is momentous, guys. _

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, total-animal-lover, Motaku1235, and Orchfan_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXII. Magic

Sherlock knows that many people see his abilities as inhuman, but he doesn't understand how they could ever be considered such. They're the most absolutely scientific, fundamental functions that a mind is given, and just the fact that his is more advanced than others' doesn't make it magical. They still gawk, though, disbelieving that any regular person could be capable of such a thing.

And perhaps one couldn't, because Sherlock isn't normal, he knows that he's not normal. Nonetheless, he can't help but stand by the belief that his own capabilities are utterly unimpressive, even mundane next to the power of someone like John Watson.

Because John, unlike Sherlock, does know how to work magic. Sherlock's positive of this. There's nothing else, is there, that could do such things to his heart, accelerate it every time the blonde doctor approaches, twist and contort it into a million shapes with every word out of his mouth, every flicker of his expression? In Sherlock's mind, John is surely a magician, to be able to play the chords of the detective's mind and body so effortlessly, spin him to his will, steal the air from his lungs and replace it with clouds of fairy dust, pale, glittering gold mist that tickles and stabs and massages all at once, to the point where he can't imagine anything more perfect or more torturous.

And Sherlock's stupid, and he knows he's stupid, to ever let it so much as cross his mind that the things John does to him are in the least bit supernatural, and perhaps it's fear that propels him to imagine such a thing in the first place—fear, because he can't control these foreign _things, _which he's beginning to recognize have a name, a substance—_emotions, _that's what they are, and they terrify him like nothing else.

John's the one who brought them out in the first place, brought them out of their hiding, of their dank caves and their musty nooks, even if he has no idea, himself. Meaning that John is also the conductor of it all—he can make those emotions move, make them swerve and ripple effortlessly. He has power, such boundless power, and he has no idea of it.

Sherlock never dares to tell him the truth, knowing how ridiculous such a thing would sound, but he still holds it in his mind, burning day and night and all the little moments in between. John Watson holds his heart, and he lives in constant dread of the inevitable day that he'll drop and break it.


	63. Do Not Disturb

**A/N** _I seem to have forgotten to mention it the past couple of times, but, people, THIS STORY HAS PASSED A HUNDRED ALERTS. Not to mention 260 reviews and 80 faves. Thank you so, so much!_

**Thanks to** _total-animal-lover, innenlebenaussenwelt, NinjaGirlRebecca, Hummingbird1759, Motaku1235, Call me Mad, MapleleafCameo, and 666BloodyHell666_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXIII. Do Not Disturb

Lestrade is used to being able to burst into Baker Street without hindrance, dart up the stairs and to Sherlock's unfortunately familiar flat with the news of a strange case hot on his tongue. Mrs. Hudson's learned to open the door for him with a smile and a warm greeting, and Sherlock himself always snaps to attention the second that he sees the Detective Inspector's shape in the doorway.

But this time, the landlady seems a bit anxious as she unlocks the door for him. "You might want to knock, dear," she calls, holding a hand to her lips anxiously as he starts up the staircase without hesitation.

He dismisses her words with little thought—surely the update on Scotland Yard's latest serial killer is more important than any trivial issue that would cause her hesitation. Flinging the door open, he glances throughout the room, trying to locate Sherlock—

Oh.

_Oh. _

The detective is on the couch—usually not an unusual place for him to be positioned, only this time he's not alone. He and his assistant, John Watson, are snuggled up next to one another, John's fingers wound up in Sherlock's inky curls as they kiss in a series of slow, lazy motions. At the noise of Lestrade's entrance, however, Sherlock shoots straight up, his eyes fierce with irritation and something that might even be humiliation.

"Who the hell told you to come in?" he demands roughly, his voice a lot less sleek and professional than usual. He sounds absolutely _ruffled, _and Lestrade would've taken the opportunity to be amused if his own cheeks weren't too busy flushing vivid scarlet.

"I—Mrs. Hudson—I mean, there was a case, there's a new development…"

"A case?" Sherlock repeats intently, straightening up to his full height. Lestrade nods, and John rises quickly, stepping off the couch and pacing over the window without meeting the Detective Inspector's eyes. He runs a hand nervously over the back of his neck, probably the most embarrassed of all three of them, the poor sod.

"The same one as before. The, er, the… the murderer, there's another body discovered, and this time the killer carved initials into… into the body…"

"Stop stuttering," Sherlock snaps. "There's no time for your awkwardness right now."

"For my—for God's sake, I just got a hell of a shock, give me a break, will you?"

"It's your fault if you didn't see it coming," he retorts neatly, finally stepping off the couch and reaching over for his coat immediately. Lestrade tries and fails to ignore the slightly swollen state of the detective's lips, settling to focus on a nervous little shuffle of his feet. Catching sight of this, Sherlock scoffs in disgust.

"Really, for a married man, you possess the ability to be strikingly immature. Head up, Lestrade, tell me more about these initials."

"Er, well…" Swallowing, he forces himself to comply. "It was simple, really, just a couple of letters etched into the hipbone…"


	64. Multitasking

**A/N** _This one's a bit odd, but whatever. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, 666BloodyHell666, Guest, MapleleafCameo, NinjaGirlRebecca, Hummingbird1759, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXIV. Multitasking

Sherlock has the remarkable ability to occupy himself with more than one task at once. It seems a trivial thing, but John can't help but be intrigued by it. Yes, the basic concept of 'multitasking' is incredibly simple, but he knows about the evidence of recent studies—supposedly, as it's actually impossible for the brain to be focused on multiple things simultaneously; not just difficult, but literally impossible, a function that the human mind isn't programmed to perform.

But Sherlock seems to do it effortlessly. He'll be running an experiment, talking to John, and contemplating the more interesting points of a recent case all at once, and as best as John can see, there's no evidence whatsoever of his mind switching rapidly between them. His actions are fluid, steady, and he seems utterly focused.

"How do you do it?" John asks one day, softly and wonderingly.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his experiment, just responds in a low monotone. "What?"

"You—it's not supposed to be _possible. _To do so many things at once."

"Half of what I do is supposedly impossible, John, I hope you know that by now." He sounds vaguely irritated. "No need to act like it's the most brilliant thing you've ever set eyes on."

"I thought you didn't mind my being impressed by you," John half-teases. When the only response comes in the form of a low grunt, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm just curious is all. I mean, being a genius, being highly perceptive—that's one thing, but your brain works differently than the rest of _humanity. _That's insane."

"No. No, it doesn't, and everyone else's could operate just as well if only they took the time to culture it properly instead of filling it with all the absolute rubbish that people do these days. Of course I can't do multiple things at once, but I have the ability to switch between tasks at a much more rapid pace than anyone else—a fragment of a millisecond is all the transition time I need. It's easy, really…" He looks up for the first time, moving his hands vaguely as he attempts to patch together an explanation. "I have several different subjects that I'm allotting attention to, and I hold them all in my mind at once—in balance, if you will. All at the top of my thoughts, so that my focus can move between them quickly… you're not following me."

John shakes his head, grinning slightly. "Not at all."

Groaning, Sherlock glances back towards his microscope, pressing his eye up to the lens. "I should really stop trying to even… just because you put up with me doesn't mean your brain is any more developed than the rest of those apes."

"People, Sherlock, people."

"If idiots like that are people, then I'm concerned for the fate of the planet," Sherlock retorts, his voice thick with frustration.

John can't help but laugh.


	65. Horror

**A/N** _Yay, back to the angst!__  
_

**Thanks to** _NinjaGirlRebecca, Motaku1235, AstheRavenflies, Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew, total-animal-lover, DuShuZi, and Guest_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXV. Horror

_Close… I've got to be close. _

John tries to hold his hand steady, disregarding the fact that the effort is entirely ineffective. His flashlight beam darts over the walls and ceiling of the dark warehouse, illuminating whirling vortexes of pale silver dust, which lays over the scattered tables and boxes like a thin carpet. He flicks it down to the metal floor to check that he's on the right trail. Sure enough, several unsteady, scuffed-up trails of footprints cut through the pale grey layer. The individual tracks aren't quite distinguishable—if Sherlock was here, he thinks with a tightening of his chest, he'd be able to read them like a map.

But Sherlock _isn't _here, and that's the point of it, that's why he's come in the first place. For a moment, his thoughts dart back, he recalls what brought him here—Sherlock's inexplicable absence at the flat, the forced fingernail marks cutting through the paint on the door… he closes his eyes for a moment, swallows and tries to school his thoughts back into some semblance of order.

He has to focus.

A crashing noise suddenly stirs the air, loud and fierce, and he freezes, his eyes stretching wide as his forefinger hovers over the flashlight's power button. Seconds whisk by—_one, two, three, four—_there's nothing.

"Sh—Sherlock…?" he whispers, the name scratching in his throat, forced into a nearly whispered lowness. The response is silence, and he curses himself for being stupid enough to speak aloud. He can't shake the feeling that there are eyes on him, their owners hidden somewhere in the dark shadows cloaking the high roof. After another half-minute or so of poised stillness, he begins to creep forward again, breathing softly through his lips and glancing around obsessively.

A quick look at the floor reveals it.

There's blood, seemingly everywhere—chillingly deep puzzles of vivid scarlet liquid, glinting in the flashlight beam and seeping over the metal ground, fragments of dust swimming in its surface. Splashes cut across the sides of the nearest boxes, and trails lace here and there across the floor, like the set of some horror movie. Nausea spins John's stomach, and he raises a hand over his nose and mouth, trying to hold back the fierce tears that suddenly attack the back of his eyes.

_Oh, God, Sherlock… Sherlock… _"Sherlock!" he cries out desperately, unable to hold himself back any longer. He's stumbling forward, slipping in the crimson puddles, the stench seeping into his sinuses and triggering his gag reflex with its hot, metallic sweetness. _Where the hell are you? _But there's nothing, and even as he cries out again and again, there's no response, not from Sherlock or any potential attackers. Just that horrible, oppressive silence, pounding in on him from all directions, cruel and unending. He can feel his throat clenching up now, and the next time he calls out the other's name, it comes out as a broken sob.

_"Sherlock!"_


	66. Traps

**A/N** _I'm going to jinx this by saying it, but I've been doing pretty well with daily updates lately, haven't I?__  
_

**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, 666BloodyHell666, and linguisticRenegade_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXVI. Traps

"Don't come," John implores, his voice faint over the poor phone line. Sherlock's fingers tighten over the mobile in his hand, knuckles going stark white as the plastic cuts fiercely into his palm.

"Tell me where you are."

"I—no, Sherlock, please, _please. _You know this is a trap—they aren't even trying to disguise it!" His voice is growing desperate, strained, and he sounds only a couple of steps away from tears. "They have a plan, they're going to hurt you, you—you're smarter than this, you stupid genius, don't do this to yourself."

"John." He speaks in a low, steady voice, staring straight ahead out the window of the flat, his shoulders and spine impeccably straight. "I'm not going to let them hurt you. I'm not going to let them kill you. I'm not going to let you do _anything _to you. Tell me where you are so that I can come. I'm smarter than them, you know that. I can get us out."

"No—don't risk it, for God's sake, it's not worth it."

"Of course it's worth it, don't you start being ridiculous. I can't let you stay in danger, John, do you understand that? Tell me you understand that."

"I can get why you'd think that," John allows, "but… I can't agree, okay? You have to give it up. If I was any other hostage—hell, even if I was Lestrade or Molly, you'd let it go, wouldn't you? You'd call the police in if you knew it was out of your range… even you can manage to do that, get over your ego once in a while—" His voice is split by what could be a sob just as easily as a laugh, and Sherlock feels a rough sort of stab in his chest, so fierce and real that he reaches up, runs his hand over the shirt tightly buttoned there.

"I'm going to come, and I don't care if it's a trap, do you understand that?"

"I'm _fine, _Sherlock, please. I'll be absolutely fine if you'll just leave me be, alright? Whatever they do to me… it will hurt me less than if you come, I promise. If they hurt you, I… just…"

"Nice try." Sherlock ran the edge of his tongue over his lower lip. "I'm going to trace this call. Shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes, and then I'll be there as soon as I can, depending on how far away it is."

"Don't do this! _Please_ don't do this, you're worth more than this! The world can't afford to lose you over something as trivial as me, don't you realize that?"

"I could hardly care less about the _world,_" he murmurs. "I don't allow people to take what belongs to me."

_"Sherlock!"_

He presses the _end call _button firmly, clenching his teeth together and raising a hand to press against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

_I'm sorry, John. Can't you see that I don't have a choice? _


	67. Playing the Melody

**A/N** _Laaaa. __  
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**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, PassionandPromise, total-animal-lover, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXVII. Playing the Melody

Someone who knew Sherlock solely by his appearance, the attitude that he constantly projects to the public, would never imagine that he would want anything to do with such a delicate craft as music-making. It's so different from his other habits, the usual cold, mathematical functions of his mind, and, in John's opinion, at least, it brings a new sort of humanity to him. Sherlock's figure takes on a grace like no other when he lifts the slim, light form of his treasured violin, settles it lovingly on his shoulder and draws the bow across the strings in a graceful, haunting melody, a little bit different every time.

He never plays the same piece twice, or really any composition as it's written. Certainly he'll carry over the general tune, the overall feel, but he always alters the notes that he thinks to be imperfect, and usually results in a superior product. If only his spectacular mind wasn't already put to use by his day-to-day work, John can't help but think that Sherlock would have made an amazing professional musician, perhaps even some sort of prodigy.

The doctor can still remember, of course, the very first time that he heard his flatmate 'play' the instrument—after Baker Street's first bombing, with Mycroft sullenly twirling the handle of his umbrella in the opposite chair and the sunlight slanting through the paper barriers put up over the shattered windows. Sherlock wasn't really trying, at that point. Or perhaps he was trying—trying to get Mycroft out as fast as he could, which is why the noise he created then was rough and grating, painful on John's ears, planting a small desire to wrench the instrument from the detective's nimble fingers and send it flying out the window before any more painfully clashing notes could be drawn like screams from its strings.

But Sherlock is a better player than that, much better. His music is pleasant, even breathtaking on the occasion that it will reach one of its beautiful, massive crescendos, such a quick, epic orchestra that it's near-impossible to believe that it all came from one instrument, from one man.

And then, of course, there are the softer bits, the calm, twisting rhythms that come on the days when he doesn't eat or sleep, when he didn't so much as talk most of the time. A good deal of the months after Irene Adler's faked death were like that—slow, dull, and threaded together by that single tune, composed by Sherlock himself, that he would repeat over and over, to the point where it would get stuck in John's head for days on end—but he didn't complain, because it was a beautiful sound, one that never failed to stir something deep in his chest.

Everything about Sherlock is brilliant, of course—his deductions, his cleverness, his quick thinking, his ability with disguise, his physical strength and speed… but John is positive that the most _Sherlock _thing about him, the aspect that absolutely defines his character, must be the music.


	68. Hero

**A/N** _Now the last line of this one just makes me think of the Avengers, wow.__  
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**Thanks to** _TooLazyToLogin, sparrowismyhummingbird (not creepy at all-I'm extremely flattered!), MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXVIII. Hero

By the time they arrive there, the building is already on fire. The orange light reflects in John's eyes, bright against the darkened horror of the rest of his face when they stumble to a halt, Sherlock barely out of breath but John practically doubled over.

"We were too late," Sherlock murmurs grimly, staring as a large portion of the house's siding slips down into the grass and crumbles to dark grey ash.

"Don't say that!" John hisses in defiance. "They might still be trapped in there, somewhere!"

"Unlikely. It took too long…" His internal defeat is evident in his voice, taking on the form of acid frustration, and John lets out a disbelieving noise.

"So you're disappointed because _you _couldn't make it on time, right? Didn't live up to your own stupid ego? Do you have any idea—there are people _dying _in there!"

"Trying to get inside at this point would be suicide," Sherlock growls. "The best we can do is call the fire department." With this in mind, he slips a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving his mobile phone and dialing up the emergency number.

John takes a moment to catch his breath, glaring fiercely at Sherlock while the phone rings steadily. "…No," he finally snarls, through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to give up on this."

"John—wait!" Sherlock calls, alarmed, but the other man is already dashing up the path to the house, holding his arm over his mouth and nose and dodging a fierce bout of flame as he ducks inside the smoking house. Hissing with frustration and terror that he would never admit to, the detective cut off the phone call—one of the neighbors was sure to have notified the police already, in any case—and runs to the porch just as a veil of fire darted over the wood, licking it up and completely blocking any view or entry inside.

"John," he repeats again, faintly, but of course there's no response. _Oh, God, John… what have you done now…? _The seconds stretch into minutes, slowly, and the house starts to fully collapse, the highest floor caving in first, then the others beginning to slip and collapse. Sherlock stands in the yard, eyes wide, figure frozen, mind numb.

There's no way, is there…? No way that John might actually _not _make it out, could be _ended _by that fire… _why the hell did you let him go…?_

Then he sees them, running over from around the back—the woman is limping, and the little girl can barely drag her feet along the ground, but he has her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder as they dart away from the wreckage of the house…

_John._

John, with the family of two that had lived there, and they're alive, they're _all _alive.

Something breaks in Sherlock's chest, and, at least in that moment, he does believe in heroes.


	69. Annoyance

**A/N** _This one is extremely short, sorry about that!__  
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**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, MapleleafCameo, 666BloodyHell666, Orchfan, Missy the Least, TooLazyToLogin, Motaku1235, DuShuZi, total-animal-lover, and Sherlocked Girl on Fire_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LIX. Annoyance

"Why don't you just _talk _once in a while?" John finally demands, turning to glare at his flatmate, who's sprawled on the long couch, his feet extended and his hands positioned at his chin, staring at the ceiling. He's been in such a position for about ten hours now, never rising, eating, or drinking—never so much as blinking, as far as John can tell.

He doesn't respond, of course, just glares slightly, still not taking his gaze away from the ceiling. Growling in frustration, John stalks to the other side of the room. Annoyance is beginning to creep up around the edges of him, hot and twitchy, and he has the sudden urge to throw something. Why does Sherlock have to be so damn _obnoxious_ sometimes? To be completely honest, John thinks that his silences are worse than his rants, by a long shot. They just stretch on and on, and he won't _move, _won't talk, just lays there… and then, at the end of it, he'll dismiss the whole damn thing as 'thinking,' which is absolutely ridiculous. Nobody thinks like that, for hours and hours on end. Nobody thinks so _hard _that they can't spare just _ten seconds _to answer John's question about the grocery shopping.

His anger will never last for more than a couple of days, though. Sherlock always manages to turn it around, outweigh his negative characteristics with how generally fantastic he is. And John ends up exasperated with himself more than anyone else, by the way, for letting things slide so easily.


	70. 67

**A/N** _You can never, never have enough post-Reichenbach angst. Not ever. (This one is also extremely short, so sorry about that, but the next few are back up to the usual ~500 word length.) And, of course, THANK YOU FOR THE 300+ REVIEWS! It means more to me than you can imagine. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, NinjaGirlRebecca, 666BloodyHell666, total-animal-lover, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXX. 67%

Two years in, it's as hard as ever, if not worse. Everyone's given up trying to comfort him; in their eyes, it's pathetic that he hasn't recovered by now, though of course they'd never say such a thing aloud. Still, he knows what they think. It's clear to him, clear in their eyes and their tight, disapproving expressions. _Get over it. It's been two years. Longer than you had with him, even. Isn't it supposed to take half as long as you knew someone to recover from them? But, no, that's only when you're in a romantic relationship… and this is more than that, so much deeper and more real than that…_

He still feels it, every day. The emptiness of the flat, pressing in on him from all angles. The lack of anything to work towards… he hasn't even gotten himself any more girlfriends, because he knows what a petty replacement they'd be, what pathetic attempts at filling the horrible gap in his chest.

It's scary, really—beyond scary, _terrifying, _and it keeps him awake at night, prowling in the corners of his restless mind, taunting and frightening him with its realness: Sherlock is not coming back. Never.

For the rest of John's life, he'll be alone.

And if this, _this, _is how bad it is for him after just two years, he can't imagine the mess that he'll be in when his time comes rolling around.

John doesn't know, of course, that he's already two thirds of the way there.

He doesn't know, but he will, soon enough.


	71. Obsession

**A/N** _Back to the normal length, woop!__  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXI. Obsession

God, Sherlock is beautiful.

Maybe John shouldn't think about it as often as he does. Maybe it's disgusting, indecent, shallow of him… but it can't be shallow, can it? Really, it's not as if that's the only thing that he appreciates about the brilliant consulting detective. He's charming (in that ridiculous way that manages to be both ignorant and arrogant, but somehow attractive all the same), he's a genius, he has a heart whether or not he'll admit it—and that heart seems to show itself for John more often than anyone else, which certainly can't be bad.

But he's so incredibly _gorgeous, _at the same time, and John finds that it always distracts him, even—_especially—_when he doesn't want it to. He didn't think Sherlock a good-looking man the first time he saw him, just a rather odd one, pale and mop-haired with those strange, strange eyes. Now, the eyes are the center of it all—eyes that he swears contain supernovas and constellations inside their misty green depths. They're not always that soft pine green, either—sometimes, they shine a hard, vivid blue, neon-bright and X-ray sharp, and other times it's an unobtrusive grey like the London fogs that they've run through together so many times, the chill of the night warded off by the warm fire raging inside both of them, kindled by excitement and adrenaline and perhaps something else, something that neither of them can come near naming.

And the face—God, the face. That flawless, creamy skin, molded into a strong jaw and a luxuriously long neck, absolutely cutting cheekbones and a full, surprisingly innocent-looking mouth. All finished off by the silky perfection of his curls, piled high atop his head, more often than not springing off in all sorts of untamed directions. He messes them up even farther every time that he runs his fingers through them, and John loves it whenever he does—the gesture, usually accompanied by a hand placed on his hip, elbow bent out at the side, and a soft biting of his bottom lip completing the portrait of pensiveness.

Hell, John loves _everything _about Sherlock.

He loves it enough for it to follow him, day and night, always there, a quiet, lurking desire that he's not quite willing to put voice to—not even his mental voice; such an action is too risky, whether or not the results be uttered aloud. He doesn't want the words to fully take shape in his mind, and he thinks that, at least to some degree, that just might be because it's better this way. Better to keep it a puzzle, a tempting, fleeting question, mysterious and just out of reach. It's more magical, that way, after all. More forbidden.

_Mysterious. Tempting. Magical. Forbidden. _

All words that, and John can't possibly deny this, describe Sherlock himself.

Alright, so maybe he's just a bit obsessed, but can he really be blamed for such a thing?


	72. Mischief Managed

**A/N** _And... sort of angst? From the reader's POV, maybe. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, Hummingbird1759, Orchfan, sparrowismyhummingbird, glambertcello, Violette1415scs, and NinjaGirlRebecca, _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXII. Mischief Managed

_It's done. _

Sherlock thinks these words, calmly and with absolute conviction, as he lies in his bed, the same bed that he's had for years, so many, many years, since the beginning, when he first met John that one fateful night back when he was still working for Scotland Yard.

How long ago it seems now.

He's still there, of course, still in Baker Street—_barely there, but clinging on… _he could never bring himself to leave it, in the end. Not even in the past few months, when the memories it held burned worse than anything, when the halls seemed to echo a certain dusty finality.

There were no more experiments in the kitchen, of course. Not anymore, now that he was too damn decrepit to clean up after himself… it wasn't too bad, though. He'd grown used to it, grown used to relaxation, even if he still poked a perceptive, insulting observation at everyone who came in to 'check on him,' clearly indicating that he didn't need their help at all, that his mind was as polished as ever, thank you very much, whether or not his face had lost its smoothness and his hair had begun to shine silver.

John used to laugh whenever he did that. His laugh never changed, over the spans of the decades. It was still just as warm, just as sweet and flawless. Just like the rest of him had been, up to the very end.

Sherlock used to despise the idea of the end. John's end, his end. Now the first has come to pass, and it doesn't even hurt anymore, but only because he knows that it's not going to matter, not for much longer.

Not for much time at all, because, as he reminds himself patiently, it's done.

Sherlock never gave much thought to how he would die, over the course of his life, but it now seems exceedingly obvious that _this _was always the way to go. With several cases unsolved, of course—he could never make a clean job of anything, and John would tease him about that, too—but with the most important questions answered, the vital questions.

He knows why he lived. He knows what he lived for. And he knows what to die for.

The answer to them all, of course, is the same thing. His work. His absolute passion for the game, the puzzle, the chase, for dashing down alleys and shooting down criminals like the wild young man that he once was.

And John is a part of that. He'll always be a part of it, the essential part that brought those silly old _emotions _into the whole thing, made it all more than a job, made it a life.

He sighs at the memories, then casts them off gently as he uses the last tiny fragments of his strength to turn on his side, gaze out the window that the drapes are finally drawn back from.

Snow is falling, light, swift.

But the room is warm, and it's positively toasty under the blankets, everything around him is so soft and his breathing is so slow and he's going to see John, _he's going to see John again. _

_It's done, _he repeats for the third time, and a tiny gust of air parts ways with his lips as his eyes flicker shut, his body sinks more heavily into the mattress, letting the last of its strength melt away.

_It's done. _


	73. I Can't

**A/N** _Sorry that I missed a couple of days!__  
_

**Thanks to** _linguisticRenegade, glambertcello, MapleleafCameo, tkilyle, Orchfan, johnsarmylady, total-animal-lover, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXIII. I Can't

"Sherlock," John mumbles, the name thick like cotton in his mouth through the haze of the drugs. His shoulder throbs numbly, burning chills radiating out from the puncture point, where the needle delivered the chemicals into his system. He can feel them inside of him now, coursing untamed through his veins, squeezing around his heart and tightening his throat. He can barely see the room before him, all the shapes doubled up and darkened by the undefined shadows that haunt his vision.

_"Sherlock…_"

"John," he replies, and his voice is like a brass bell, clanging and clashing against the inside of John's skull, so that he has to clench his teeth when aches spread out like ripples along his forehead and temples. Everything is shaking now, and his legs are made of jelly, weak, trembling pillars that collapse all too easily underneath him. Briefly, he can feel the cold ground under his palms, but then the bones in his arms melt and he's on the floor, half of his face paralyzed with the concrete's ice.

"Hold on." The words somehow manage to sink into his mind, broken fragments from his ears managing to piece themselves back together, however unevenly. _Damn… it. _Can't the stupid man see that it's impossible to hold on? Even as this concept crosses through his attention, he realizes that he's been letting go of the physical world, and he desperately gathers it back to him, can suddenly feel strong hands on his arms and back, cupping the side of his chin.

"It's just a drug, understand?" Sherlock whispers, mouth moving harshly against his ear. "It's not going to hurt you, not really… they just wanted an easy escape…"

"They got… away…?" He doesn't know if the words reach his lips or not, but they burn ferociously in his mind, fighting their way out into the air.

"Don't worry about that. I'm here now, I'm going to get you out of here. You did amazing, John, I should have known that there were too many of them for you… hold on, now, just hold on…"

_Can't… _he said that it was alright, though, that whatever it is poisoning John's veins and stomach and brain is nothing more than some sort of sedative, it won't hurt him… so it can't hurt to slip off, surely not.

He lets go slowly, and Sherlock doesn't protest, just releases a small, exceedingly gentle sigh, which is the last thing John hears as he releases his hold on reality.


	74. Are You Challenging Me?

**A/N** _I've always loved that little moment in ASIB when they first meet Irene- Sherlock's glance over to John is just incredibly interesting, like he's seeking some sort of reassurance in the normality.__  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, Natalie Nallareet, Hummingbird1759, hjohn302, 666BloodyHell666, sparrowismyhummingbird, and Song of Grey Lemons_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXIV. Are You Challenging Me?

Irene Adler has cold eyes. Ice-hued blue, sharpened with the intense gaze of a hunter. For no particular reason, that's the first thing that Sherlock notices about her—those eerie, almost haunting eyes. They're framed by heavy swipes of dark liner, of course, farther emphasizing their frostiness by forming a shadowy backdrop. The rest of her face is accentuated in all the right places, too—a light chestnut deepening her cheekbones, merciless scarlet painting her already full lips, and pale powder ghosting over the whole expanse of smooth skin, forehead and jaw and cheeks, temples and nose and chin. She's like a portrait, something fake, a sketched character with no actual depth.

And as Sherlock's eyes travel around her, trying to find something in the pale peach curves of hips and shoulders, artistically knotted swirls of glossy brunette hair, she remains that way—a cardboard silhouette, a name on a page of unrelated words. She gives away nothing—nothing. _Blank. _A blank canvas.

There's exactly one thing he can tell about her, which is the fact that she's done all this on purpose. Erased her very self, replaced it with splashes of falsity, a slim projection behind which to hide. He's good, but _she's _better, because she knows that he's good and has chosen to challenge that, to make her own move in a game that hasn't even started yet. She can see past his disguise, too, knows who he is, but seemingly not beyond that, unless she's choosing to keep it to herself. They're at a standstill, a stalemate, one that can only be advanced by exchanging words.

Rather than doing so, though, he permits himself a glance towards John, a quick reassurance that it really is Adler behind all this, that he hasn't simply lost his own powers. To his relief, the weary figure of his blogger and assistant conveys as much as always, from the polished state of his shoes to the ashen shadows under his confused eyes. It's comforting, relieving, and Sherlock lets out a small breath, trying to hold himself together as his gaze flits back to the nude woman, curled comfortably on her chair and watching him with those absurd eyes. John's unknowingly done his job: Sherlock knows that his mind is still functioning, and that he has nothing to worry about.

Nothing but Miss Adler herself, who seems to have the potential to be a much more interesting adversary than he ever anticipated. A daring dominatrix is one thing; a _clever _dominatrix, something else entirely. A new opportunity. A challenge.

He can tell that John is unsure about just about every aspect of their situation, but he wishes he could correct him, explain that this is far from a threat—they've finally been given a _good _puzzle, an intriguing one, and Sherlock can't wait to get started.


	75. Mirror

**A/N** _Argh, I missed a couple of days again. Sorry, I've had some personal issues going on. Anyhoo, yeah, emotionally vulnerable!Sherlock is a beautiful thing.__  
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**Thanks to** _Natalie Nallareet, total-animal-lover, johnsarmylady, Outspoken Lamb, Song of Grey Lemons, Motaku1235, BernardTheWolf, and Sendai_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXV. Mirror

"I'm just like he was," Sherlock whispers.

"No." John's reply is steady, which is only appropriate, because he's absolutely confident of the words he's speaking. Sherlock has been on edge all evening, pacing, gnashing his teeth and running his fingers obsessively through his hair, and this is the first time he's spoken out—sudden though the words may be, John understands them instantly, and therefore makes an effort to correct them in as immediate a manner as possible.

"No," he repeats, turning from where he was focused on preparing a cup of tea and turning to face Sherlock. His fingers curl around the countertop behind him, and he balances their gaze evenly, trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock looks utterly _terrified _of nothing, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted. Stray curls spring off his head in all directions, a clear result of his clawing through them endlessly, and though John can't quite tell from this distance, it looks like he might even have been biting his lips. "You're not. You mean Moriarty, right?"

Of course he does. There's no one else he could have meant. Sherlock gives a tiny nod anyways, the knuckles of his twin fists straining vivid white.

"God, that's just ridiculous," John promises him, lifting the teacups and bringing them into the living room. He indicates that Sherlock take a seat, and the detective shakily lowers himself into his chair, gripping the arms stiffly and keeping his legs horribly rigid. He numbly accepts the offered cup of tea, but makes no move to bring it to his lips.

John sits down much more comfortably, and takes a long, thoughtful swallow before going on. It makes sense, really, that this is what Sherlock's been so worried about. Ever since his return after three years of a faked death, he's been a lot more susceptible to _emotions, _almost constantly on the edge of some sort of anxiety. His face is older than before, as if much more than three years have taken their toll, and his frosty cool from before seems to be permanently gone, melted away by his plunge from the St. Bart's rooftop over two thousand days ago.

"You're nothing like him, Sherlock. You're… the opposite of what he was, in every way."

"No… no, I'm the _same,_" the detective insists, his tone almost frantic. "The uncaring, the detachedness… you always used to point it out to me… used to _complain _about it…"

"Sherlock, _listen to me_," John sighs, setting his cup in its saucer and leaning forward, placing his hands on his knees. "You've never killed an innocent person in your life. He was _ruthless. _He destroyed… God, I don't even want to think about how many murders he committed. His final act was getting you to kill yourself, just to rip everyone apart by destroying their false idol… to rip me apart." His last words are barely breathed, and Sherlock's eyes suddenly seem much more intent, more like his old self… angry, almost, but in a darkly tamed way.

"And all you've ever done is good," he plows on insistently, not giving Sherlock a chance to speak. "So just look in a mirror once in a while, okay? Really see yourself, because I can promise it'll be perfectly clear that you aren't a _thing _like he was, and, as long as I'm around, you never will be."


	76. Broken Pieces

**A/N** _Woot, passed the three-quarters mark! Only appropriate to celebrate with a bit more Reichenbach, right? Well, post-Reichenbach, or post-return. Whatever, same idea.__  
_

**Thanks to** _hjohn302, Song of Grey Lemons, Motaku1235, DuShuZi, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, and total-animal-lover_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXVI. Broken Pieces

"You said it _ripped you apart,_" Sherlock murmurs. John's eyes are evasive, flitting away as he pretends to focus on the neon-hued smiley face still adorning the wall, but the detective is far too quick to be fooled. "Ripped you apart… was it really that bad? Really so…"

He's cut off by a few brief, cold words. "It was horrible. The worst thing I've ever been through in my life… the war was bad, but this really…" Slowly, John shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment as if trying to push away the memories. "I didn't imagine that… anything could hurt that bad, to be honest. Just _empty. _So empty. I knew I was supposed to get over it, but… I really didn't… not for all three years. I was still waiting for you, somehow… just that stupid, I guess." A rough laugh. "In any case, it doesn't matter. You _did _come back, and that's what's important, right?"

"I… I suppose." Each of John's words are a physical stab to Sherlock's chest, like a dagger, penetrating his flesh and then twisting, shredding it. "But to put you through that much… it was unforgivable. And I'm sorry."

"You should be," the doctor mutters, reaching out for his teacup. Sherlock doesn't mention the way that the cup clatters against the saucer, a clear sign of a shaky hand, but he notices it. Oh, he notices it. "Of course it was unforgivable… sometimes I wonder why I even let you back into this stupid flat." A tentative smile turns his lips upwards, lighting up his eyes, and one touches Sherlock's features in return.

It's been easier to smile, really, ever since he came back. Much easier to smile. Not only does he have John, but John has him, neither of them has to be so destroyed anymore… it's amazing, really, just amazing. To wake up every morning, breathe in the smell of Baker Street… to know that John can do the same, be aware that he's alive… to have the opportunity to see John, himself, and not just watch him over grainy monochrome cameras, but rather _speak _with him, _interact _with him… to be _home. _

_I'm home. _That's what he thinks now, still gazing into John's hazel-blue eyes, unable to make himself turn away. Several seconds stretch by in silence, and neither of them blink, move, speak. _I'm home, and I'm never going to have to leave again, ever. _

_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. _That must be true, because the two of them have never been closer than they are this instant, this fragment of a second that feels like it just might be magic.


	77. Test

**A/N **_Just because h__e would.__  
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**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, Guest, Song of Grey Lemons, total-animal-lover, linguisticRenegade, muffinlover18, and Motaku1235_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXVII. Test

"This is going to cost quite a bit, you know," John growls as he signs the creamy sheet of official-looking paper in front of him, caps the pen and slides it across the wide desk. The impeccably-dressed woman sitting behind him accepts it and shoots him a disapproving look over her horn-rimmed glasses, adding the paper to a stack and straightening out the edges with a disgustingly spiffy air.

"Hardly. It's not as if I was in there for murder or anything," Sherlock scoffs in response. He tugs at the sleeves of his suit as the two of them turn away from the counter.

"Vandalism isn't really light stuff, Sherlock. And our budget isn't infinite, whatever you might think."

"Mycroft will pitch in if it's too overwhelming," he assured the shorter man crisply. A light smirk is tugging at the edges of his mouth as they begin their walk down the jail's hall, their feet echoing loudly on the linoleum floor.

"What're you so happy about?" John asks suspiciously. He, for one, is far from any positive emotion, considering that he's just spent a good deal of his personal money bailing his flatmate out of jail for an absurd incident involving a diamond that he'd wrongly suspected to be embedded in the walls of a rather high-placed citizen's mansion-like house. Sherlock's attempts to unearth the jewel had been far from neat, and resulted in a stunning repair bill, not to mention his two-day situation in prison that he'd been too impatient to put up with.

"You," Sherlock replies simply, almost cheerfully. "I asked you to bail me out, and you did so without hesitation."

"Only because you never would have shut up if I didn't."

"Yes, but don't you understand? You did it, you succeeded. I was testing you—"

"Wait." John stops walking inches from the door, holding a hand up and frowning slowly. "_Testing _me? What the hell do you mean, you were testing me?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, John; the word doesn't have that many meanings."

"You were testing to see if I'd _bail you out of jail?_"

"You've been a spectacular companion so far," the detective points out in an almost offhand way, reaching forward to push the door open himself, "and I had to check how far you'd go to assist me. As it seems, you passed with flying colors."

"So… so you're saying that you intentionally got yourself put in there just to see whether or not I'd pay half my month's salary to haul you back out?"

"Don't exaggerate." He steps outside into the sunlight, which illuminates the cloudless blue sky and sparkles on the cement. A clear day is rare for London, and John finds himself squinting against it. "Besides, I told you—Mycroft will help out if it's too much."

John searches for words, but failed to find them, and suffices to simply shake his head in disbelief as he follows Sherlock into the warmth of the outdoors.


	78. Drink

**A/N** _The thing is that he'd never have any reason to have alcohol, so when he did, he'd be so hilariously in over his head.__  
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**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, 666BloodyHell666, total-animal-lover, and NinjaGirlRebecca_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXVIII. Drink

"You really ought to stop soon," John suggests a bit nervously, eyeing the tall glass of beer sitting on the bar in front of Sherlock. It's filled practically to the brim with dark amber liquid, condensation running down its sides and pale foam fluffing up around its edges. "That stuff's pretty strong, you know, three glasses is plenty…"

Sherlock presses his lips tightly together, shakes his head and reaches out to wrap his shaking fingers around the glass. John watches silently as he throws back another long swallow, his throat moving with the action, then slams it down violently enough for the beer to slosh up around the edges.

Lestrade, sitting on Sherlock's other side, raises an incredulous eyebrow, his mouth open slightly as the detective draws a sleeve roughly over his mouth. "And here I thought that we wouldn't be able to get a single drop of alcohol in him…"

"You weren't the only one," John agrees. Sherlock stares vaguely at nothing as though oblivious to their banter, his pupils alarmingly dilated and his shoulders heaving. "Hey, mate, you alright there?"

His mouth stutters for several seconds as if struggling to form words, then he finally manages to work up his voice, which comes out rough and alarmingly low. "John," he gasps, then raises a hand, claps it firmly down on the blonde doctor's shoulder. "You… you have done… so _much _for me, did you… know that?"

"Right, we're heading home." John hops off his bar stool, taking Sherlock by the elbow and shoulder and guiding the heavy-breathing detective into a similar action. "Thanks for the drink, Greg, but I don't think we're going to try this again anytime soon."

Lestrade gives an alarmed-looking nod as Sherlock sags, practically panting as he leans heavily on John. "There you are, now," John mutters, helping him into a somewhat straight posture. "God, have you ever had a drink before?"

"Problysometime," he mumbles, the words slurred into a single mess of syllables as he takes a staggering step forward. "Back when I was… younger…"

"Right, I doubt it. Listen, we're gonna get a cab and just go home, alright? You'll probably be out of it by the time we get back, but at least try to be able to walk up to your bedroom, got it? And I should probably warn you that you're going to have one hell of a headache in the morning."

"Don't get headaches... 'cept for when people are… idiots…"

"Oh, you will this time," John assures him grimly, and adjusts his grip around Sherlock's waist, practically limping him out of the bar and trying to ignore the frowns and odd glances shot in his direction. "And I'll be surprised if Anderson doesn't hear about this one, to be honest. So, be ready for a rather humiliating couple of days."

Sherlock just groans.


	79. Starvation

**A/N** _I suppose his ability to function on next-to-nothing in terms of food has just always been rather intriguing to me. __  
_

**Thanks to** _johnsarmylady, 666BloodyHell666, sparrowismyhummingbird, __Song of Grey Lemons, Du Shu Zi, linguisticRenegade, MikiYi, and Motaku1235_  


**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXIX. Starvation

Sherlock is thin. Not thin in the way of a normal, slender-bodied person, as John had initially believed, but _skinny, _frighteningly skinny, like a skeleton out of a ghost story.

It's clear every time that his clothes are gone, which is uncommon even for John, but still jarring in each incident. His ribs are like knives, pressing against his chest from the inside out, their edges seemingly sharp enough to cut John's hands as he runs over them, fascinated by their uneven pattern and the humanly warm heart hammering against them from the inside, as if trying to break through the brittle, fragile cage that wraps around it. It shows in his legs, too, strong but so very slim, his ankles and calves seeming to consist of nothing but skin over bone.

Even when they're not in bed, on a normal day, John can't help but catch glimpses of his arms, every time that his sleeves are pulled back to expose the expanse of smooth skin: wrists thin to the point of being childlike, pale, nicotine-spotted forearms showing the clear outline of bones underneath.

"He _can't _eat," Mycroft explains one day, one day when John can't stand it anymore, forces himself to call the elder Holmes brother and find out what the hell is going on, whether his partner is genuinely in danger from his extreme emaciation. "It's not a disorder—nothing hereditary, in any case, but it's not a choice, either. Our parents used to try and feed him a proper amount, in his younger days, but he would always end up sick. None of us quite understand it, but I'd suggest you live him to his own devices, John. Sherlock knows how much he needs to eat—a good deal better than you do, in any case. Leave him be."

And John knows that Mycroft is smart, knows that Mycroft is perfectly aware of what's good for Sherlock—probably even more than the doctor himself—but it still hurts to see Sherlock's skinniness, alarms him almost daily. He never mentions it to the detective, though. Doesn't want to sound as though he's trying to interfere, since he does enough of that already.

Naturally, though, his concern doesn't go unnoticed. Sherlock's too quick for that. And he hates to see John so silently worried, despises himself for the quiet, tight look in the blonde man's blue eyes every time that he rolls back his sleeves. What John thinks _matters _to him. He doesn't want John to hurt.

So he eats, or at least tries to—even pushes himself up to two average-sized meals a day, and it slows him down, disrupts his brain and leaves his stomach constantly rocking with nausea. It's too much, and one day he suffers for his efforts, hunched over the flat's toilet, heaving and retching endlessly, bitterness consuming his senses.

John's hand is on his shoulder after only a few minutes of this, and his words are in Sherlock's ears, gentle and apologetic, nowhere near accusing, simply murmuring—_Get it out, it's alright, you'll feel better afterwards. Could have been something you ate, I thought that takeaway last night was a bit odd-tasting…_

They both know the truth, though. They both know that takeaway had nothing to do with it, and perhaps that's why John's voice is so soft, so understanding, so forgiving.


	80. Words

**A/N** _Whoop, I missed a while, didn't I? To my credit, it was finals week, and that sucked up a lot of my time.__  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, Suki-chan36, MapleleafCameo, starrysummernights, MarMoo.12, hjohn302, Song of Grey Lemons, Motaku1235, Rain Hamish Holmes, High-Functioning Ginger, and johnsarmylady __  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXX. Words

"I love you," Sherlock says, and John's heart vanishes.

Perhaps the words are overdue. They've been together for so long now, after all, spent so many nights in the same bed, kissed and yelled more times than the average married couple, and saved each other's lives several times, to boot. But this, this—John's told Sherlock that he loves him, surely he has; there's no way that he _hasn't. _And yet he's never had it returned. Perhaps he had it in his mind that the detective thought such a thing beneath him, a mundane, clichéd combination of syllables. That he could express things easier through his actions, craft a more subtle conveyance of the clear truth.

But saying them, it's so _powerful, _and it stabs straight into John's chest, leaves him trembling, so that his grip on Sherlock—one hand on his shoulders, one wrapped around his collar—is the only thing keeping him on his feet. "No you don't," he murmurs, and his voice surprises even himself as he looks up, meets Sherlock's eyes. The detective's head is tilted to the side, his eyebrows drawn down low, and God, he looks beautiful.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're not like that." John sighs and presses his nose into Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes slipping shut, inhaling the crisp scent of his suit—a fairly new one, neatly pressed and absolutely gorgeous on him. "You put up for me, I couldn't ask for anything else…"

"John." There are hands on his shoulders and neck, holding him close, and the concern in Sherlock's voice is vivid. "Don't be ridiculous. You know that you're the most vital aspect of my life."

He supposes that he _does _know that Sherlock cares about him, when things get down to it. He worries about him, he saves him and takes care of him, even defends him in front of other people, which is far more than John's ever seen him do for any other person. Yet he's never really allowed himself to imagine that an emotion like _love _might be more than one-sided in their relationship, that Sherlock would even be capable of love. It's too high of a wish.

But the words coming out of his mouth now are impossible to understand, and John holds him tighter, as solidly and firmly as he can. "Yeah, I guess so. Sherlock…?"

"Hm?" The sound is rumbling, rich, and John smiles into the fabric, one of his hands reaching up to wind through Sherlock's dark curls as he lifts his head, breathes the next whisper into the detective's ear.

"I love you, too, you know."


	81. Pen & Paper

**A/N** _So John's blog is basically how BBC acknowledges the novel-type stories that Watson write in classic!Holmes. I can't help but wonder, though, what it would be like if modern day John took the same approach of his Victorian counterpart.(Additionally- how the hell does this have over 400 reviews now? We're well on track to 500 in total, which is far more than I expected any of my stories to ever come near. Every single one of you is absolutely amazing for this.)__  
_

**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, starrysummernights, Hummingbird1759, linguisticRenegade, Rain Hamish Holmes, Sendai, MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, and Song of Grey Lemons__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXI. Pen & Paper

"What are you doing?" Sherlock sounds almost suspicious as he edges in closer, frowning at the sheet of paper laid out before John, the long silver pen poised between his fingers.

John frowns and leans forward, extending his arm to cover the few lines of neat, dark text laid across the blank whiteness. "Nothing," he lies automatically, resulting in a snort from the detective.

"As if. What is it?"

"Just… something private, okay?" He can feel Sherlock's stare singeing the back of his neck as he turns away, glaring down at the wood of the desk. _Of course, it was an idiotic idea in the first place… what the hell am I doing? Stupid, stupid… _

"You're writing," Sherlock notes, then reaches in and grips his wrist, pulling it aside to get a better look at the paper.

"Hey!" John snaps in protest, snatching it away with his other hand, but it's too late—the words along the top have already been revealed: long, underlined script, four short words: _A Study in Pink. _

"You're writing about our first case?"

"Not even—not writing, I'm just…" Grumbling under his breath, he scrunches up the paper, viciously tears at the edges and shoots it towards the rubbish bin across the room. It sails through the air, teeters on the metal brim before tipping over and landing neatly inside, amongst the odd-smelling paper towels residual of Sherlock's latest experiment (its other aftereffects are still soaking in the kitchen sink).

"You're absolutely writing. Why so shy… you're not trying to be _creative, _are you?"

There's a flush somewhere along the base of John's neck, and he knows it, knows how visible it is, but can't quite force himself to turn around and look Sherlock in the eye. "So what if I am?" he hisses out through gritted teeth.

"What, then, a novelization?" Two long strides later, he's at the bin, pulling the paper out and straightening it. His silvery eyes flicker over the lines of text, and the scowl on his face deepens. "Dry… you really are fantastically untalented with prose."

"And what would you know about it?" John retorts, unwillingly bristling. It's all ridiculous—he's not a good writer, he _knows _he's not, but that doesn't make Sherlock's words any less of an insult.

"I read the occasional novel," the detective murmurs mildly, tossing the paper back with the rest of the trash.

"Like hell you do."

"They pass the time." He shrugs, plods back into the kitchen. "And you have a long way to go. But, John…"

"Well, thanks a lot for your feedback." Every word stings. "But, you know, I really couldn't care less what you have to say about my personal endeavors, it's not as though I was ever going to ask anyone else to read—"

"If you ever did get anywhere," Sherlock finishes quietly, "I'd be willing to take a look at it."

They're both silent for a moment, still not meeting each other's eyes, then John sighs and his shoulders droop slowly. "Right, okay. Thanks."


	82. Can You Hear Me?

**A/N** _I am officially horrific at updates. Yeah. Well, here it is, in any case. Your reward for waiting so long is, naturally, angst!__  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, Rain Hamish Holmes, johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, starrysummernights, Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew, jackrabbit74ever (or should I say Natalie Nallareet), MapleleafCameo, and the blogger__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXII. Can You Hear Me?

"Sherlock—Sherlock." His hand is on the detective's shoulder, fingers running over the tiny thread lines of the deep grey material, tracing its curve for a moment before cinching, gripping it tightly and pulling the limp body in as close as he can, reaching his other hand around to weave in the dark, silky hair for good measure. He doesn't turn him over, can't bear to see his face—if the eyes are open, fixed in a blank stare like the one outside the hospital, God, what will he do then? Because that'll confirm it, seal it—no, this is ridiculous, this can't happen _now, _not after the Fall, not after everything… he gathers him up, tries not to ponder the significance of the way his neck bends at such an angle, the way the pale fingers drag on the ground, through the thin streams of blood that are trickling over the sidewalk, inappropriately sunlit, glittering vainly and mockingly.

There are yells in the distance, shouts and scattering flocks of footsteps, people running to stop the shooter, but all John knows is Sherlock, as he finally tilts his head upwards, can see the eyes—_shit, _they are open—no, not completely, whispered lashes fluttering and obscuring the upper half, crimson blood cracking the smoothness of his ivory jaw and scarf hanging like a dead thing, its fringed ends painted scarlet. "Sherlock," he mumbles again, "come on, hang in there, you're still there, I know you are—"

The only response he gets is a ragged cough, and with it comes more blood, bubbling at the ghastly pale lips, too vivid, scorching in its intensity… semiconscious, unresponsive, _what do any of those words even mean, _why do they matter… "Come on, hold on, I've got you… Sherlock, say something, please say something…"

Still, there's nothing, nothing but the rasping, knifelike noises of his lungs and his heart working against each other, scraping like sandpaper, oxygen fighting its way down his throat, body systems confusedly contradicting one another as they all simultaneously fight to keep him alive. "Sherlock, please, can—can you hear me? I need you to hold on, you're strong…"

He groans, and the sound is aching, almost stirringly _beautiful _in the most horrible of ways, because it's weak and vulnerable and this is _Sherlock, _nobody in the universe cares about him more than John does. _Tender, _that's what this is, like John's own chest is cut open, dripping, his heart pulsing exposed against the shattered edges of his ribcage, just waiting for the slightest breeze to rip it apart. And that breeze lies at Sherlock's lips, coming every few seconds but all too liable to fade away entirely if he doesn't hold himself together, _hold himself together._

John clutches him as tightly as he can, trying to do such himself, rocking like a child, unwilling to let his broken ragdoll fall apart.


	83. Heal

**A/N** _I do somewhat like this one, actually. __  
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**Thanks to** _Motaku1235, starrysummernights, MapleleafCameo, 666BloodyHell666, hjohn302, johnsarmylady, and sparrowismyhummingbird__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXIII. Heal

John's the doctor. He's the one with the medical training, with the torturous experience in the dry expanse of Afghanistan, with the title and degree necessary to proclaim so. But he's also the one with the scars, on his shoulder and on his mind, silvery shadows of former wounds, echoed traces where blood used to flow freely.

Scars don't heal. They're residual of the injury itself, a sneering reminder of the agony that he suffered, of the fact that he'll never truly be free of it. That's what scars are, really, reminders, haunting and impossible to avoid, impossible to ever be free of.

There are the supposed solutions, of course. There are the lotions for his shoulder, the pills for his brain, but neither of them will ever be truly effective, especially not the latter. He doesn't mind, not really. He'd never expect them to. Since he _is _a doctor, he knows quite well that the promises on packages rarely retain even seventy percent of their promise in the product itself. He knows that he's never really going to be fixed.

Or at least he thinks so. He never expects the introduction at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, never anticipates the wild night of taxi-chasing and cabbie-killing that follows, or the years that stretch on afterwards, punctuated only by a single Fall, otherwise a ceaseless flow of _life, _of wonderful, pure life, which flows over his thoughts, reforms them, erases any scars that were ever there.

Perhaps medicine can't work wonders on such things, but, it would seem, people can.

It doesn't make much sense, at least not to him, that things work that way. He can imagine something like the lovely peace he gets coming from a romantic partner, perhaps, Sarah or Jeanette, because that's supposed to be their job. But Sherlock manages to do something that none of those poor women ever come near. He's _amazing, _he is, because when John's with him, everything else fades away. It no longer matters that he was in the war, or if it does, it's irrelevant, insignificant compared to whatever enemy they might be pursuing now. He's landed himself right in the middle of a new way of existence, and it's wonderful, he's not complaining one bit.

It's true enough that the scars aren't really _healed. _But that makes sense. It's logical. They're not supposed to—he'll always be a different person for the pain he received, but that doesn't mean that the effects can't be invisible, that he can't forget them every once in a while.

Sherlock is his medicine, Sherlock is his healer, Sherlock is his everything. He needs the dark-haired detective like he needs water, and perhaps someday he'll realize just what that means.


	84. Out Cold

**A/N** _It's interesting to think of them getting into the more horror-movie-esque situations. They'd probably have to deal with some seriously messed-up enemies at one time or another. (Hey, look, it's more angst!)__  
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**Thanks to** _starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, Song of Grey Lemons, Natalie Nallareet, Motaku1235 (yes, I have seen it, and Martin was fantastic!), and linguisticRenegade__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXIIII. Out Cold

_Have to reach him. Have to get to him. Have to be with him. _

His hands fumble faster and harder against the heavy steel lock, nails scraping fruitlessly along the unscathed metal. An infuriated hiss escapes his lips as the edge of his finger hooks itself around the sharp edge of the contraption, pulls, and then there's a tiny, sparking flame of pain as his skin rips, a tiny bead of blood swelling up on his fingertip.

"Dammit!" he shouts, not caring who hears as he slams a fist into the metal bars. Sherlock's eyes widen behind them, and he takes a couple of steps back, looking small and vulnerable despite his usually intimidating figure, with the dark walls of his prison seeming close in on him, strong and heavy. What kind of sadistic killer must this _be? _John wonders wildly, his shoulders slumping against the bars but his hands returning to the lock, running along it uselessly.

There are knives—_knives _dangling from the ceiling, hanging heavily on whisper-thin strings, and it's the most twisted thing he's ever seen, grotesque, like something out of a horror movie. They twist and glitter in the low light, threatening to fall at any second—they _are _going to fall, eventually; there's no way to escape the iron prison without causing enough movement to release them, and John, John's going to have to _watch, _watch as the life is sliced out of his flatmate, as the gleefully shimmering blades slip down like a sword-sharp hailstorm, piercing every centimeter of Sherlock's pale skin and splattering the rusted metal walls with deep crimson…

No. No, he has to be able to do this, has to be able to get in first…

"John," Sherlock tries, taking a tentative step forward and curling his sweaty fingers around the bars again, trying to meet his eyes. "Calm down. I'll be fine."

"You won't be _fine! _You're going to _die! _This is going to be the _death _of you, Sherlock, and it's all because I let you walk in there like the idiot that you are, let you into that damned _trap…_" But he can't talk, can't spare the effort that it takes to enunciate words, he can't—he can't.

"Turn away," Sherlock implores as the daggers sway to and fro, "don't watch—"

"I'm not turning away!" he bellows, and he can feel tears on his cheeks, feel their salt stinging his skin, but he doesn't care, the ache in his throat is nothing compared to that in his chest. "There's got to be a way, there's _got _to be a way to—"

Before he can get another word out, a pale hand is shooting between the bars, grabbing him by the shirtfront and pulling him in closer, until he's forced as close as possible, and it's like they're in London again, bound by handcuffs and on the opposite sides of the fence where it all started, really, and he can smell the light, minty freshness of Sherlock's breath, he's drowning in the frozen sapphire-jade pools of his eyes. "Listen to me," Sherlock snarls, "this is my _dying wish, _do you understand? _Get away, _don't you _dare _watch. I won't let you do this to yourself."

"I won't let _you _do _this!_" John shoots back, fighting down the sob that rears up in his lungs.

Those eyes flash for a moment, then something on Sherlock's face hardens into alarmingly cool resolve. "You're not watching," the detective murmurs, then he's yanking forward, John's head is colliding with the metal bar, and he's not aware of his grip on the lock slackening, nor of slipping silently to the floor.

Nor of the fact that the jarring movement disturbs the knives, rocks them back and forth one too many times, and initiates their fall, a silent cascade of deadly silver rain.


	85. Spiral

**A/N** _Wow, that last one was one of the best-received chapters yet. Thanks a ton!__  
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**Thanks to** _MapleleafCameo, Wavewizard19878, Hummingbird1759, starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, hjohn302, Natalie Nallareet, Sherlocked Girl on Fire, linguisticRenegade, sparrowismyhummingbird, Guest, Orchfan, and johnsarmylady__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXV. Spiral

The expression of 'falling in love' was never going to apply properly to Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't fall anywhere unintentionally, not even to his own death, and such a perfect streak would never be broken by something as dull and mundane as a romantic interest.

_Romantic interest. _Partner. Lover. Never words that he expected to apply to himself. It wasn't that he scoffed at love in the way that he did at some things—it was a necessary component in life, required for, or at least helpful in, reproduction and maintaining of a population. It was things like that which he could understand with ease, facts, figures, numbers, definitions. _Love—_an intense emotion used to pass on the genes of a race. Easy enough.

'Falling in love,' though—something like that, he simply rolled his eyes at. Nobody _fell _anywhere. They walked headfirst into a wall of obsession, something that they absolutely could have avoided if they'd kept their eyes open.

And so it is that, when the time finally comes around for Sherlock to encounter love, himself, he does keep his eyes open. Wide open, taking in every detail, every sign in himself as well as John, noting the _fondness, _followed by _affection, _and then, dangerously, the sweet ache of _caring. _He skitters around the edge of such an emotion, initially. Tries to keep his distance, keep his dignity, stop himself from growing close enough for anything about John to truly matter. That doesn't work, which is only to be expected, really. The damned man cares about _him _too much already, cares about Sherlock, and he shows it in the strongest of ways, in his devotion and loyalty. The light in his eyes whenever he lays them upon Sherlock is a unique one, and one that the detective is far too perceptive to ignore.

Still, he tries to stay away. He knows what a thing like this could do to him, do to his work and therefore the safety of London itself. Sherlock Holmes is too important of a man to find himself surrounded by love, whether he fall in or approach it otherwise.

And yet John pulls him closer, unwillingly, perhaps, unconsciously, wrapping Sherlock like a string around his finger, and even as the detective tries futilely, desperately to stay away, it never works. Of course it never works. He inches closer and closer, creeping around the circumference of his affection, but inevitably drawn into a tight spiral, until a final sharp curve—a curve involving a n elaborate hoax, a hospital roof and the threat of a madman—secures the thread, sends him straight into the middle of the pattern he's created, solidly on the point that he's spent so much time trying to avoid.

And then he _is _in love, undoubtedly, unwillingly, helplessly, and he can't do anything about it. But, as he'll always insist, he never _fell _anywhere. It was a slow process, gradual, unique like everything else about him is, was, and ever will be.


	86. Seeing Red

**A/N** _I suppose there's nothing much to say here, except that I've finally gotten myself organized in terms of time again, so I'll hopefully be posting daily. There are only two weeks' worth of chapters left if I manage to do one a day!__  
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**Thanks to** _Song of Grey Lemons, 666BloodyHell666, hjohn302, starrysummernights, 3star, Starlight05, Florence the Impaler, MapleleafCameo, withoutachord, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, Guest, and Motaku1235__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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LXXXVI. Seeing Red

"Step back!" Sherlock shouts, not caring about his volume at this point. A gun is in his hand, heavy and solid, pointed steadily at his target—the dark-masked man crouching at the end of the alleyway, the blade of a knife shining between his fingers. His other hand is wound in John's sandy hair, pulling him back and exposing his throat, which the knife's edge dances along tauntingly.

"Why should I?" the masked man questions, his voice muffled but still clearly sneering. "What's going to stop me from cutting his life out?"

"I am." He takes a step closer, grip on the gun tightening as the knife is pressed in closer. "There are very few things that can make me angry, but you've just managed to hit one right on target. I am a formidable man even in the calmest of moods. Your best choice now would be to run. Of course… you'd probably regret doing so before you got far." The gun is swiftly cocked, the sound reverberating off the slick alley walls. The criminal flinches, the blade twitching and a light scratch darting across John's throat, red swelling in its wake. He hisses in pain, and fury rears up in Sherlock's chest, white-hot and suffocating.

"_Step back," _he repeats, the words utterly deadly. The gun is pointed straight at the man's forehead, and they're mere meters away. He won't miss. "The police are on their way, and I can promise you that they'll deal with you in a much more _humane _way than the one that I have on my mind. But if you hurt him one more time… they'll be calling in a coroner, not a lawyer. Am I _clear?_"

Long moments stretch by, sirens beginning to wail in the distance and John's wide eyes anxiously flickering between the two men. Anger is still throbbing at the inside of Sherlock's skull, distorting his vision with a pale red mist, and he's practically trembling with the potency of it. He wants more than anything else in the world to _fire _the damn gun, to shoot the man straight in the skull, savor the look of shock on his face as he fell away—_nobody _is allowed to touch John, to hurt him.

_Nobody._

But he forces himself to hold back, and minutes later, the police are there, with their own guns, handcuffs and the strength of their numbers, and the masked criminal is letting John go, holding up his hands in surrender, Sherlock's lowering his gun and racing to his frozen flatmate's side, reaching out and just feeling him, running his hand over John's warm shoulder to assure himself that everything's alright now, that they're both safe and that he didn't have to hurt anyone, didn't have to wind up in a court case, himself.

"Would you have shot him?" John asks a little later, on their way home, when the police have taken care of the criminal and driven off in their lighted cruisers.

"You killed that cabbie," is Sherlock's only response, and it's enough for them both to stay silent from then on.


	87. Food

**A/N** _Like promised, here's another chapter right on time.__  
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**Thanks to** _starrysummernights, Starlight05, Florence the Impaler, 666BloodyHell666, sparrowismyhummingbird, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, and Motaku1235__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXVII. Food

"It's been three days," John announces, his arms folded as he stands in front of the couch that Sherlock's sprawled across. "Three days, and you haven't spoken a word or eaten a single damn morsel."

The detective rolls his pale eyes, but makes no other move to acknowledge John's presence. His arms are folded, hands cupping his elbows, and his body still enough that he could be frozen.

"Hell, you probably haven't even gotten off that _sofa, _unless you happened to while I've been out. But I know that you haven't had any food, and there's only that one bit of water." He gestures to the slightly dusty glass perched on the coffee table, half-full of three-day water, close enough for Sherlock to reach, though John figures that he probably hasn't even touched it. Swallowing his frustration, he plows on with his monologue, trying not to feel self-conscious as his overly loud words drop into the silence that the flat is otherwise full of.

"And I don't care how superhuman you are, I'm a doctor, and I can guarantee that this is the perfect way to destroy your body, brain included. A person's mind can't function on no nutrients, no exercise—you need to _eat _something, at the very least." He ends on a more despairing note than he originally meant to, but still feels that he got his point across well enough, a hope that's reinforced by the light, breezy sigh gusting between Sherlock's lips.

"I've spoken plenty," he mutters, his voice as rich and dark as always. "Just not when you were around. You would have gotten irritated."

"I _am _irritated," John snaps back, trying not to reveal how relieved he is just to hear the detective talk. "Irritated because you refuse to care for yourself. I don't want you to die young, Sherlock, no matter how appropriately _dramatic _of an ending you may see that as. So long as I'm your friend, you're going to live to have grandchildren—"

"Why ever would I marry?" he points out idly, his gaze running along the ceiling, tracing a faint line of mildew that's threatening to take root there. "It seems that children are a reasonable start towards achieving such a thing, and I can guarantee that I have no intention whatsoever to—"

"Alright, calm down, I get it." John waves a hand. "We're not talking about _kids, _though, we're talking about _food, _and the fact that if you don't eat something soon, I'm going to lose my own appetite from worrying about you. Just shove something down your throat. _Please,_" he adds after a brief hesitation, his eyes gleaming briefly with faint traces of the stress he's been trying to disguise.

Sherlock still doesn't look at him, but his chin slowly dips in a grudging nod, and he heaves himself into a sitting position. "I will," he murmurs, and it's like a massive weight has slipped from John's shoulders.

"Good," he says gratefully, "but I'm still not letting you go until I see it happen myself."


	88. Pain

**A/N** _Wow, I'm just going to be apologizing for late posting right through the end, aren't I?__  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, Song of Grey Lemons, Hummingbird1759, Rain Hamish Holmes, total-animal-lover, hjohn302, House of Thorns, sparrowismyhummingbird, johnsarmylady, Motaku1235, WiltedBloom, and Florence the Impaler__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXVIII. Pain

"It _hurts, _doesn't it?" the psychopath breathes, his Irish accent velvet as it brushes against Sherlock's ear, soft and unnaturally cool. "Oh, it _hurts…_"

The detective bites down into his own teeth, clenching them together as his whole form shudders, nerves on fire as Moriarty giggles and steps back again. His light fingers click, and then the burning metal brand comes down again on Sherlock's bare back, scorching the skin, and it's all he can do not to scream, his muscles trembling and his lungs shaking with the effort as the white-hot pain streaks down his spine, presses into his shoulders, tearing his very mind into a thousand pieces to make way for the blinding cloud of agony. It shines behind his eyes, blazingly scarlet, but he still doesn't allow himself to make a sound.

"Burn the heart out of you," Moriarty trills almost thoughtfully, pacing slowly before Sherlock, who strains for the thousandth time against the metal cuffs holding him on the cold metal table that presses into his stomach and chest, chills his collarbone. He forces his chin up so that he can keep Moriarty in his line of sight, and the ache that such an action induces in the muscles is nothing compared to the waves of fire dancing along his back. "You know what I meant by that, of course you do, you know where your _heart _lies…"

_John, _his mind tells him, and he can't connect the name to a face, knows in some hidden part of his brain that doing such will make everything a hundred times worse.

"But it would be far too dull to simply hurt _him. _No, I wanted to see physical pain in _your _eyes, Sherlock… those lovely eyes." Cold fingers brace themselves under his chin, and his head is tilted back even farther, he's forced to stare into the face grinning down at him—a pale face, eyes wide and dark and demonic. "But don't fret, dear, Dr. Watson is still suffering… oh, he's suffering."

He lets go so fast that Sherlock's head thuds down against the table, his jaw banging against the metal and his teeth unwillingly cutting into his lip. Metallic crimson fills his mouth immediately, and he spits it out, the blood-tinged saliva splattering over his chin as well as the table. Moriarty's fingers snap again, and the heat torturing his back is momentarily lifted, such a relief that he has to fight to stay conscious, not to faint into the sweetness of reprieve. It's a struggle, and black spots still flow before his eyes, weaving in and out.

"He's suffering," Moriarty whispers, his voice low and deadly, "because he _sees _this, Sherlock. It's being recorded, and Johnny boy is _watching. _We have him, tied up… his eyes taped open… he's watching every _second _of this. Can you imagine the look on his face?"

"You're lying," Sherlock chokes, his voice hoarse to the point of being unrecognizable.

But Moriarty only laughs, and the metal brand comes down on the burned flesh of Sherlock's back once again.

This time, he does scream.


	89. Through the Fire

**A/N** _You can never have enough Sherlock whump. Not. Ever. By the way, thank you SO much for the 500 reviews. I'm just... I'm speechless. Completely speechless. __  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, johnsarmylady, hjohn302, Motaku1235, Natalie Nallareet, ThisDayWillPass, RamenMartinez, and LuvMiMusic92__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

LXXXIX. Through the Fire

The flames were _hot, _hot than Sherlock ever would have expected. He knew the temperature of fire in various conditions, knew it down to a tenth of a degree, but numbers could never really capture the true experience of being near a raging wall of the white-orange flame. He pressed himself down against the dangerously dry wooden wall of the abandoned house, clenching his teeth together and holding his palms over the floor, trying to avoid the clouds of smoke that drifted thickly over his head. Still, he couldn't stop a few tendrils of the heavy greyness from slipping down his throat, and he coughed, hacking into the air, which barely contained the traces of oxygen mandatory for him to breathe.

There was no one inside the house, so there was at least that reassurance. Not even John. He'd come on this mission alone, with the intention to corner the criminal he'd been tracking. Damn man had been a step ahead of him, though… somehow… perhaps he was growing sloppy, no longer covering his tracks properly…

His thoughts wove about in a hazy mess, and he drew his sleeve over his forehead, rather surprised at how damp it was by the time he pulled it away. All of his skin was polished with a thin layer of perspiration by now, sweat curling around his upper lip and sliding into his mouth, tanging it with salt. His throat was scorched with thirst, and a blanket of sleepiness was beginning to overwhelm the adrenaline pumping uselessly through his veins. No amount of reserve energy could save him from the fire that surrounded him on all sides.

Perhaps he should run straight into the wall of flame, just get it over with. It would be less painful, certainly, and he could at least die with the knowledge that he'd been the one to decide the final circumstances.

He couldn't, though. His fingernails dug into the splintering floorboards underneath him, digging deep in as a tongue of flame darted out, scorching the edge of his shoe. He inhaled swiftly against the pain, feeling a cloud of dizziness sweep through his head like a veil of the ash that sat around him.

It was all going to be over, soon enough.

It would be nice, he figured faintly, if only he'd gotten the chance to say goodbye to John. Guilt stabbed lightly at his stomach, but the sensation was too distant to be truly painful. John would manage. He was strong.

_John…_

Even the fire was shining less vividly now, everything feeling awfully far away as smoke swamped his lungs. And yet, for just the briefest moment before it all vanished completely, he thought he could see the lightest hint of blue, blue eyes, through the streams of red and gold and white, hear voices and feel a distant spray of coolness coasting over his shirtfront…

But it was surely just his imagination.


	90. Triangle

**A/N** _Another huge gap between updates, because I suck. Only ten more after this, though! This one's from Irene's perspective, for a change of pace. Also, there's a hint of Irene/Molly, because I ship it unhealthily hard. __  
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**Thanks to** _Rain Hamish Holmes, hjohn302, starrysummernights, Hummingbird1759, ThisDayWillPass, and johnsarmylady__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XC. Triangle

There's no denying that Irene Adler has a fondness for Sherlock Holmes. Well, perhaps more than a _fondness—_to be precise, she's rather captivated by the urge to take one of her polished leather riding crops to his gorgeously smooth, pale skin, loop the silkiest rope she can find around his slender wrists, force him onto her bed and rip his clothes away viciously and shag his senses out—

But, well, she's more refined than that. If 'refined' is, in any way, a term that can be applied to the blue-eyed dominatrix. She wouldn't do something so blatant; after all, she's just as attracted to his mind as she is to his body, and she wants to be able to play her game out fully, experience every bit of his promise, test the boundaries of his spectacular brain…

And maybe, just _maybe, _there's something else, too. Something else that's holding her back, despite how much she wants Sherlock for herself. It's almost that he feels… _off-limits. _Such a thing is doubtlessly a bizarre label for her to use; it is her _job, _in all ways, to break those rules, to easily treat herself to the most absolutely 'off-limits' men and women. Married isn't a problem. Neither is royal, or religiously barred from her ventures, or anything, really.

Still, it's rare that she'll find someone who really seems to have a true partner in place for themselves already. A person that they _genuinely _care about, whom their affection for won't fade with time or debt. Her clients and interests quite often have husbands or wives, yes, girlfriends or boyfriends or fiancés or crushes…

But what Sherlock has is beyond all that, somehow, even if they don't seem to have a definite romantic connection in place. John Watson, of course, is the one that Irene thinks of—Watson, she can't help but feel, would show no mercy on her, if she were to make a move on Sherlock. Perhaps he wouldn't realize why, but she would.

It's obvious that they're in love. Dazzlingly obvious, to the point where she can't help but delight at the sight of them together—sure, she's _jealous, _but beyond that, it's impossible not to be glad for them. They seem so utterly happy with each other. The two of them have found something that she surely will never approach.

So she keeps her distance, more or less, stays in the shadows, doesn't approach Sherlock in any way that isn't at least somewhat subtle. Irene has enough decency to respect people who are practically soulmates, and they're rare enough that she actually _wants _to.

Besides, she does have rather a fancy for that pretty little coroner at St. Bart's morgue…


	91. Drowning

**A/N** _John's the one in danger, for a change. The result is snogging, not for a change. __  
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**Thanks to** _Guest, starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, ThisDayWillPass, Natalie Nallareet, shielafernandez357, johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, Hummingbird1759, Motaku1235, and total-animal-lover__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XCI. Drowning

John knows that he shouldn't inhale. It's dangerous, at this point—he's too far underwater, and the only thing that it will do is fill his blazing lungs with dark, murky liquid, speed up the drowning process. But it's practically impossible to resist. His surrounding are completely dark, even with his eyes wide open, water stinging them angrily. He flails his limbs wildly, but he can't identify up from down now, and all of his body systems are beginning to race as an encompassing feeling of desperation seals over him. There's nowhere to go, no direction that leads towards confirmed safety, and his head is beginning to pulse with lack of air, white shadows dancing swiftly around the corners of his vision.

It's ridiculous, he reflects vaguely, noting from a distance that his hands are still struggling futilely to paddle, that his feet haven't relaxed enough to go limp. Ridiculous that he should die this way, drowning. There were so many times when he thought he might be killed, during and before his time with Sherlock. But he always envisioned that he'd go down in a blaze of glory, struck by a gunshot, caught by the enemy—never shoved by a furious criminal into the Thames, tossed about by the chill autumn waves until he could no longer find the surface.

And not just ridiculous, but _mundane. _Thousands of people, _thousands, _have sunken to their deaths in this river. Perhaps they'll never even find his body. A warm heat starts to prickle at the base of his skull, his head feeling as though an iron clamp is slowly sealing shut over it. He wonders if Sherlock will mourn him, if Sherlock will even miss him.

He also wonders what it's like, being dead, but decides not to dwell on it—he'll find out soon enough. Surely he only has a few more seconds of consciousness left in him, and then his instincts will take over, his stupid instincts, his mouth will open and the water will flow in, it'll all end itself in minutes at the most, almost certainly less.

_Not much longer. _

Then he feels it, from far, far away, feels a numb pressure on his arm, something else gathering around the back of his neck and supporting his drooping head, and then there's suddenly coldness all down his face, his mouth is flying open and gasping in icy air, his whole body tingling as the previous aching warmth is suddenly ripped away from him. He keeps breathing, for several seconds, just coughing and sucking in mouthful after mouthful of frosty, beautiful, pure oxygen, until his head begins to grow light in an entirely different way from before. Shudders are consuming his whole skeleton, but he's clinging to something—something's keeping him afloat, stopping him from going under again.

Sherlock is soaked, still fully dressed, his dark hair plastered to his face with water and what looks like blood all along his jawline. His pale eyes are wide, and he's staring at John as though he's the most precious thing in the world.

Words can express nothing at this point, and maybe John's just a little crazy from his near-death experience. Whatever the cause, he finds himself leaning forward, reaching up with a blue-tinged hand and cupping the side of Sherlock's face, clinging to him and kissing the hell out of him even as they tread water in the middle of the frozen Thames.


	92. All That I Have

**A/N** _Aaaaangst!__  
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**Thanks to** _Orchfan, starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, MapleleafCameo, hjohn302, Guest, Hummingbird1759, linguisticRenegade, Motaku1235, Song of Grey Lemons, ThisDayWillPass, and johnsarmylady__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XCII. All That I Have

"Don't leave," Sherlock implores suddenly, rising to his feet. His heart leaps forward in his chest as John turns around, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth tilted down in confusion. The blonde man's hand rests on the last of the few dusty cardboard boxes he's managed to pull together, all of which are now filled with his worldly possessions. The rest of the flat is depressingly empty without them—even the Union Jack pillow, belonging to Sherlock though it had been in the first place, was tucked away into one of the boxes, leaving John's chair bare.

No, not John's chair—it's just Sherlock's chair, now; Sherlock's chair Sherlock's sofa, Sherlock's table, Sherlock's flat. John no longer has anything to do with it.

"You'll be fine," he insists. "Mrs. Hudson will help you manage the rent, remember? And it's not like you're going to get _lonely, _for God's sake. I think we'll both be happier for this—it'll work better for Mary and me, and it'll work better for you, too. Alright? Just… I can still help you out in the occasional case, if you'd like, still get down a blog post every now and then—we have too much of a following for me to abandon it."

Sherlock only steps forward, his eyes wide and intent. "John, _please. _This won't—whatever you say, I can promise that this will _not _be better for me. You can't leave. Not now. I… I depend on you too much, at this point."

"What are you talking about?"

"You, John, I—" He doesn't have words for the angry, desperate emotion heating his chest, so he just shakes his head, growling softly. "I can't manage without you now, do you understand that? You're—you're all that I have, at this point. For you to leave… I… wouldn't be able to make it very long."

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs. "You managed before me, and you'll manage after me." There's a long moment of silence, then John sighs. "Look, it's not exactly easy for me, either, mate. I'm going to miss this place. But we're still going to see each other, right? You don't need to act like I'm walking to my death." Ending on a slightly irritated note, he heaves a box into his arms and starts out the door of the room, headed for the stairs. "Help me bring these down, will you?"

It's useless, Sherlock decides, his gaze flickering to the ground in defeat. There's no way to explain why he's upset, how it has just as much to do with John getting married as moving out.

No way at all.


	93. Give Up

**A/N** _I swear this is the last time I kill Sherlock. It's just strangely addictive. __  
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**Thanks to** _MarMoo12, starrysummernights, Orchfan, 666BloodyHell666, Natalie Nallareet, linguisticRenegade, ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, Florence the Impaler, Motaku1235__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XCIII. Give Up

The hospital is quiet, much quieter than John's used to it being. Then again, he's adjusted to being in the very thick of all the hustle and bustle, working as a doctor himself, not sitting here—a guest, a relation of the patient. He supposes that they try to cover up the more stressful atmosphere that he knows to fill the building, for the benefit of those visiting. Like it will offer some sort of reassurance, make them feel _better. _

Feeling better, though, seems utterly impossible. What is there to feel better about? His life, his whole life, is in tatters. The only thing fragilely holding him together is the shape in the bed that he sits beside, the slight rise of white sheets and the steady beeping of an oxygen machine parked nearby.

There's a mask pulled over Sherlock's face, foggily transparent, covering him all the way up to his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls slowly, and the tubes snaking away from the device respond, beads of air pumping up and down, steadily working to keep him alive.

Keep him alive. Since when is that a thing that he can't manage on his own? Sherlock's supposed to be stronger than this. He always _has _been stronger than this. And sickness, _sickness, _was never supposed to take him. Nothing was ever supposed to take him, supposed to leave John behind.

The silence of the ward suddenly seems to vanish all at once, immediately dispelling these thoughts. The previously steady beeping of the many machines hooked up to Sherlock's prone form is suddenly harsh, angry, accelerating as green lights that John never even noticed suddenly blaze red. His grip on Sherlock's limp wrist goes tight, insanely tight, holding on as fiercely as he can and refusing to let go.

Then there are doctors, and nurses, swarming into the room in a flock of white coats and harried expressions, something's pulling John away, forcing him out of the room. His numb lips move in protest, his voice falling weakly out of his mouth—"No, please, I'm a doctor, I'm a doctor, you can't…"

But then he's outside, pressing his hands against the glass window separating him from Sherlock—who he can't even see, there are too many of _them, _of those damned doctors, and he's shaking, shaking as he hears the quick words and sharp curses even through the divisor—"We're losing him," "He's dropping rapidly," "This might be it."

John shakes, staring with wide eyes, unwilling to believe that this could be it. He can't see any of what they're doing, but he's waiting for the words, the damning words, _I'll call it, time of death, time of death time of death time of death…_

He can't hear those words, he _won't _hear those words, he refuses. _You're stronger than this, _he reminds the unhearing Sherlock, _you can make it, I know you have it in you, just don't give up, don't you dare give up. _


	94. Last Hope

**A/N** _I love the pool scene so much.__  
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**Thanks to** _Natalie Nallareet, 666BloodyHell666, johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, Motaku1235, ThisDayWillPass, Jackrabbit74ever, and starrysummernights__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XCIV. Last Hope

Tension pulses through the air, cutting through the pale water of the pool, filling his ears with a slow buzzing. His eyes are wide, taking in the entire scene before him—the stretch of tile, the two dark men standing there, the gun arm of one extended, the other with his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. He knows the inevitability of what's approaching, John does, and he forces himself to take slow, careful breaths, not even sure how he manages to stay on his feet what with the extent of his chilled fear.

They're talking, Sherlock and Moriarty, and he hears each word clearly, but it goes on to drop out of his memory almost instantly, so that he can't quite connect them, can't pull together their combined meaning. All he knows for sure is that Moriarty's going to kill him, _kill _him if he can't do this, can't think of something to get Sherlock out. He's not going to survive, John's not, but he barely cares, really—what does it matter? _What does it matter? _So long as Sherlock makes it, nothing else is important. The world can't stand the loss of such a magnificent man.

John will do whatever's necessary to save Sherlock. He admits this to himself, and that makes things easier, simpler. There's nothing to it, then—all he has to do is stop Moriarty, physically restrain him from doing anything to stop Sherlock from fleeing. And then hope that he _will _be smart enough to flee. Surely he realizes that this is it, that there's no other way, that this is their last hope.

_I have to do it. I have to get him out of here, let him live another day. _

So he does, forces himself forward, and it's like he's moving through quicksand, dragging and thick, but he manages to get there, to _pounce _on Moriarty, cinch his arms around the slim psychopath's neck, somehow concealing himself from the taunting rifle sight that had been playing at the bomb wrapped around him.

_Run, Sherlock, go! _He knows he's shouting the words, forcing all his energy into them, frantic, trying to convey the absolute desperation of the situation, that Sherlock can't stay behind and play the hero this time, that he has to _get out of here._ It's John's last wish, then, if this is really it for him.

Moriarty's laughing, taunting, his Irish voice weaving in and out of hoarse gasps and trilling murmurs, and John processes the words, but just barely, because he's freezing, his heart is turning to pure _ice, _freezing fog filling his lungs as the glowing laser appears on Sherlock's own forehead, weaving through his ebony curls.

He steps back, his stomach plummeting, adrenaline wandering his body. His legs tremble as he holds his hands up in a weak surrender.

_What now?_


	95. Advertisement

**A/N** _Touching back to the beginning, here. __  
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**Thanks to** _Song of Grey Lemons, 666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, johnsarmylady, Hummingbird1759, It's-Somebody, ThisDayWillPass, Motaku1235, and linguisticRenegade__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

XCV. Advertisement

_Managed to find myself a flatmate. No need to keep looking. _

Sherlock's finger hovers over his mobile phone's _send _button, his tongue playing at the edge of his teeth. The room is silent, the ticking of a hidden clock the only noise to penetrate the warm darkness. Lights dance along the black of the windows, pooling in yellow and red reflections, their color glinting along the raindrops streaking the glass, but their source is soundless. Possibly the last night that he'll have 221b to himself, he supposes, glancing over the mess of books and boxes that fill the small place—it's already managed to establish itself as homely, even though he only officially moved in two nights ago.

He likes it here. That's why he was reluctant to send the message out to his associates in the first place, the news that he was searching for someone to share his quarters with, that he couldn't afford paying for them on his own—he'd prefer solitude, of course, but Mycroft kept close tabs on his money, insisted that he needed to try working with a normal budget rather than the fortune inherited from their parents. ("And you're setting a perfect example of such," Sherlock had pointed out in a growl, the reply being a delicate eye roll and disdainful umbrella flick.) It didn't help that his brother was most likely the only person in the world who could truly lock his money away from him, render it completely inaccessible.

No matter, though. Because Sherlock isn't all that disappointed in his soon-to-be flatmate. _John Watson, _as Stamford's cheerful tones had introduced him. _An old friend of mine. _Stamford, of course, is an idiot—but a rather likable idiot, as they go, much more so than someone like Anderson. A friend of his is likely to be a good man, and what Sherlock's seen of Dr. Watson is good enough for him. An ex-soldier is sure to be colorful company, he figures. Useful, even. He noticed that psychosomatic limp, and it's clear to him as it will be to Mycroft, when he brings John to the empty warehouse the next night, that Dr. Watson craves the war more than dreads it.

Sherlock sets his phone down for a moment, screen still glowing with the unsent message, and presses his fingertips to his chin, hunched forward with his elbows balanced on his knees. The spinning light of a police cruiser strobes through the room, briefly illuminating its contents before whirling away into the wet night. Not stopping at Baker Street—whatever crime its siren signifies has no relevance to Sherlock Holmes.

But many do, and that's why he's hopeful. If Dr. Watson wants the war so badly, then the war he shall receive. If anyone's up for providing something like that, it's doubtlessly Sherlock.

Just because he labels himself a sociopath doesn't mean he can't do some good once in a while.

Smirking at nothing, he reaches forward and hits the _send _button of the phone, and the swooping noise of a delivered text drops into the air. There. Now it's confirmed among his contacts, as well, that he has the flatmate he's been waiting for, that he no longer needs them to be on the lookout for one.

It will be interesting to see just how he and John Watson work together.


	96. Through the Storm

**A/N** _Wow, we really are getting close to the end, aren't we? __  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, ThisDayWillPass, johnsarmylady, __Song of Grey Lemons, and Rain Hamish Holmes__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XCVI. Through the Storm

He hates the rainy days, because they remind him of the Fall.

It was raining that day, raining on the sidewalk—not heavily, not like now. Just light drops, tentative, brushing along the cold pavement and flecking it with deeper grey, like ruffled doves' feathers. Enough to chill John's neck, send physical shivers down his spine, as if the ice gripping his heart wasn't enough, as if—

No.

No, he's not going to relive that, because he already has a thousand times, a thousand nights would up in his bed sheets, shaking, fists pressed to his eyes and jaw clenched tight to keep the strangled sobs from leaking out. He's out in _public _now, for God's sake, and he can't let it consume him—_it _being the pain, the _hurt, _the utter agony—

There it is again, finding its way into his mind, and he takes a deep breath of the moist autumn air, shoves those thoughts to the back of his mind. It's been well over six months now. He should be well on the road to recovery.

He's not, but he chooses not to think about it, because doing so will doubtless cast him into one of those dark spirals, of the type that find him at night and tear him apart.

His feet move along the sidewalk, one ahead of the other, the brown tops of his shoes slowly darkening as the curtains of rain swoop down over them. He didn't bring a raincoat, nor an umbrella, but the gale is fierce enough that it would have managed to soak through them, anyways. He keeps his head down, listening to the rhythm of his own lungs, focusing on the pattern and trying not to think about the storm. As soon as he gets home, he tells himself, he'll close the curtains, make a cup of tea and let it burn his tongue, pretend that there's no rain at all, and maybe that'll be enough to ever-so-slightly lessen the pressure on his heart.

Inevitably, that will mean that he feels the loneliness more vividly than ever, but there's no need to think about that. No need to think about anything.

He pauses outside the door, his hand hovering over the knob, and spares a glance over his shoulder.

For a moment, he can almost see him.

A shadow in the rain, nothing more, but a slim, dark shape, curved in the shape of his coat, tall and strong among the waves of grey.

He blinks, and the mirage vanishes, but he's not disappointed. He's used to the visions disappearing. It's all they ever do.


	97. Safety First

**A/N** _I don't even know what this is supposed to be.__  
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**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, starrysummernights, __Rain Hamish Holmes, 666BloodyHell666, Wavewizard19878, linguisticRenegade, Song of Grey Lemons, and ThisDayWillPass__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XCVII. Safety First

"Wait," John interrupts, reaching forward and laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he makes to sprint out the door. The detective tosses him an irritated glare, but his tone remains adamant, his resolve anything but wavered by Sherlock's obvious annoyance. "You don't have a gun."

"I won't need one," he insists rapidly. "It'll be quick work, they're idiots—but they're _fast,_" he adds as John clings to his coat, refusing to let him go. "And I'm about to lose them." He gives a quick jerk, dislodging the fabric from the doctor's grip, and starts outside.

John sighs, frustrated, and hesitates for only a moment before hurrying ups again, his feet pounding on the stairs and his breath tight in his chest. There's no way that he's going to let Sherlock go without any sort of protection—he's come close to losing him too many times. He's not going to stand for the risk again.

His room is dark, but he makes it to his bedside table swiftly, pulling it out to reveal the dark gleam of the gun lying within. He grabs onto it without hesitation, and the metal is surprisingly cold, sending light chills down his fingers. There are memories in this weapon, memories of the battlefield, and, suddenly, he doesn't want Sherlock to be in possession of it. Almost as if it'll poison him, or connect him too fully to Afghanistan. He hesitates, knowing that the detective must be nearing the door by now, that he'll have a taxi soon if John doesn't hurry.

_You can't let him go without the gun, idiot. It's too dangerous. You know it is._

So much for a day off, he recognizes tiredly, only allowing himself another three seconds of pause before snatching his jacket from its position draped over his bedpost and pulling it over his shoulders, tucking the gun underneath it. Dashing down the stairs, he wonders vaguely if he'll ever be able to let Sherlock go somewhere on his own. Surely he's capable; he did survive on his own for years before John arrived. But the doctor can't help but feel some obligation to protect him. He's just so_ stupid, _really, so careless and impulsive… he says he plots things out carefully, says that he always plans and makes sure to be careful, but John really has trouble believing that sometimes.

Well, most of the time.

It's misting outside, not quite rain but certainly far from sun, and John pulls his jacket a bit tighter, making sure to cover the bulk of the gun with his folded arms. He steps quickly, managing to catch up with Sherlock's much longer stride, even though the detective is already halfway down the block.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps, scowling. "I told you, I'm not taking the gun—"

"No, but I am. And I'm coming with you."

Sherlock spends about half an instant debating whether or not to object, then rolls his eyes and picks up his face, leaving John to scamper after him, barely suppressing a grin.


	98. Puzzle

**A/N** _So if I can keep successfully posting one a day, I'll be done by the end of this weekend!__  
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**Thanks to** _666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, linguisticRenegade, Song of Grey Lemons, Hummingbird1759, ThisDayWillPass, and johnsarmylady__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XCVIII. Puzzle

Games. That's what Sherlock's life consists of. Games, puzzles, enigmas, questions, mysteries… always the mysteries. There are hundreds of them, thousands, all running through his mind, scrambling over one another, flitting by his attention just long enough for him to pull together an answer, a solution for them. And he does, almost constantly. The usual crimes are simple enough—all he has to do is look in the right places, connect the obviously presented clues, tell the police what happened and then they're happy, and he's back to being bored.

Those incidents are never anything _special, _though. They're horribly dull, barely work his mind at all, so that the gears turn without even beginning to strain themselves. Walking, but not running. He never runs, except for when Moriarty is involved—then he brings his thoughts to a steady jog, sometimes edging on sprinting, swift and precise. Moriarty is a _challenge, _a delightful challenge that he can't deny excites him. He's as smart as Sherlock, and he knows it, he _uses _it, creates a game unlike any other. A game with real dangers, real stakes, real chances of failure. Chances of failure spur him, keep him going, poised on his heels and teetering at the brink.

Yes, Moriarty is undeniably one of the most fascinating things in his life. That's absolutely true.

But if James Moriarty makes him run, then John Watson makes him _fly. _

John is a puzzle, as well, a puzzle above all the rest—the only man who's really a _mystery _to Sherlock. Because, despite his mundaneness, despite his absolute readability and complete obviousness, there's something _else _to him. Spirit, Sherlock supposes_. _John is the perfect portrait of an average man, and yet he's so strong, so brave, so loyal, so _loving, _and those are characteristics that Sherlock can only ever look in on. He's the heart to Sherlock's mind, and the one mystery that it will never be able to unravel, not in a million years.

And even if he can't understand it, that doesn't mean he can't adore it. And adore it he does, respects it and longs for it, even if he never dares to express such a thing. He may not be able to understand it, but that doesn't mean he can't keep it close to him—in fact, it's all the more reason to never let it out of his sight.

He'll keep trying to solve the impossible puzzle, of course, keep trying to decipher John's psyche, to comprehend just how it functions. It'll keep him occupied to the end of his days, and he'll enjoy every moment of it, because there's no threat involved. And perhaps that it what makes it so perfect, after all—there needn't be danger involved for him to be intrigued by John, because the blonde doctor manages to hold his interest anyways. He's unique, _special, _and Sherlock is fully aware of it. Revels in it, even. There is not—and there never will be—anything in his life that's more valuable than John.


	99. Solitude

**A/N** _One away from completion, and a few away from 600 reviews. __  
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**Thanks to** _sparrowismyhummingbird, 666BloodyHell666, Rain Hamish Holmes, Starlight05, Song of Grey Lemons, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, ThisDayWillPass, and especially starrysummernights__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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XCIX. Solitude

Sherlock gets lonely, sometimes.

He never lets anyone know. As a matter of fact, he manages to convince them that he doesn't even notice his solitude—on occasion, that's true; but it's much rarer than he leads everyone to believe. It's because he doesn't want them to know, he supposes. Doesn't want them to know that he's much more sensitive than he's ever implied. Doesn't want _himself _to know, even.

After all, it didn't always used to be like this. And, if he's honest with himself, he can pinpoint exactly what prompted things to change: the arrival of his flatmate. Of John.

He doesn't like it when John leaves.

And, frustratingly, John leaves all too often. Whether he's headed to the store or New Zealand, it seems that he's gone with upsetting frequency. Sherlock feigns disinterest in his troublesomely common departures, but isn't quite sure why—as a matter of fact, it frustrates him sometimes, the fact that he can't just bring himself to say that he doesn't want John to leave.

_Don't. Stay here this time. It's quiet without you, and I hate it. _

But he can't say that. He never could, because it exposes _weakness, _stupid, absurd vulnerability. One of the many things that he's supposed to be immune to.

Like love. He's not supposed to feel that, by his own ruling.

Not love, and not loneliness, but both of those are suddenly prevalent in his life, hiding around every corner. And he tries not to think about them, because they both hurt, both burn.

_Burn the heart out of you. _That's what Moriarty said, at the pool.

And Sherlock's coming to realize, despite himself, that perhaps such a thing, _burning the heart out of him, _would be all too dreadfully easy. He's sensitive. He's _sensitive, _and it's all because of John.

And maybe, just _maybe, _that's part of why he hates the loneliness—_fear. _Not fear for himself, of course not (though that would be much more logical, much simpler and easier to deal with). No, he fears for _John, _can't help but worry every time he's out of his sight, because Moriarty's out there, too, out there in the world, and he won't hesitate before doing something to John. Harming him. He has before, took him at the pool, and Sherlock can't bear for that to happen again. Can't risk that emptiness in his stomach, that hollow horror that was undoubtedly the worst sensation he'd ever felt in all the years of his life.

And so he exhales, a tiny breath of relief, every time that John walks in the door. The doctor never notices, and that's good; Sherlock wouldn't expect him to, and certainly wouldn't want him to. He's glad that his concern goes unnoted. Because if anyone else knew, surely Moriarty would find out eventually. And then he would be destroyed.


	100. Relaxation

**A/N** _And here's the last one. I topped 600 reviews as well as over 100 alerts and favorites, and that means so, so much to me. I'm endlessly grateful to every single one of you for all the support and feedback you've given me. Thank you, and enjoy the final installment.__  
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**Thanks to** _Hummingbird1759, starrysummernights, johnsarmylady, 666BloodyHell666, linguisticRenegade, MapleleafCameo, Song of Grey Lemons, Rain Hamish Holmes, ThisDayWillPass, total-animal-lover, and Guest__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

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C. Relaxation

They don't stay in Baker Street forever, of course. After multiple long decades, when they both have to admit that they're not as quick—in mind or body—as they used to be, John gets out his computer one day and looks up houses. _Real _houses, not London flats—out in the countryside. (Sherlock snaps that he doesn't want to be away from the city, proclaims the mere idea 'dull,' but John ignores it.) It takes a while, but eventually they manage to locate one place that they both agree on—a small, almost cottage-like home, situated among rolling waves of grass, its whitewashed sides sun-drenched, with blue shingles on the roof and hints of ivy curling along the eaves.

John loves it as soon as they step inside, and Sherlock does, too, even if he doesn't say it. There's _peace _in this place, peace in the silence of the wind and the dust in the air, the halls and single bedroom quiet and warm. Peace is something that neither of them ever got the opportunity to fully experience on their own, perhaps never even desired to. But it's perfect here. No threats, no gunshots, no murders. Only the trees and the clouds, and each other.

Each other. The most important part of the equation, the thing that puts aside the loneliness and boredom that would otherwise cause many more of the shadows and bullets that they've fully abandoned. This way, neither of them is ever on his own, and there's someone to challenge Sherlock's mind when he complains that he has nothing to do with it, someone to hold John tight and breathe in his tears on the nights when the war comes back.

At night—not every night, but often enough, a few times a week—one of them sits outside, in the field with the apple trees. It's Sherlock more often, but occasionally John, and he'll settle into the grass and let its silver blades run over his fingers, painting them in dew, soaking in the white moonlight that illuminates the grey in his hair. And the other will come out, after no more than a few minutes, silently crouch beside his partner.

Sometimes they talk, because John loves Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock loves John's, too, even if he never says so. There are a lot of things Sherlock doesn't say, but John knows them, anyways.

And, other times, neither of them says anything at all. They'll sit, side to side or back to back, and watch the stars. The stars hold memories for both of them, memories of a night in London, a great game and a lighted planetarium, the thrill of the chase in their blood and the warmth of each other in their hearts.

So much has changed since then. So much has gone. Mrs. Hudson is gone, Mycroft is gone, Moriarty is gone. Lestrade's still hanging in there, retired with his wife and children, free from the plague of crime just like John and Sherlock.

But the most important things are still here, and they always will be. Sherlock has John, John has Sherlock, and they both have the stars.

That's all that matters, really.


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